/oV 


THE  BELLMAN 
BOOK  OF  VERSE 

1906—1919 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bellmanbookofverOObellrich 


The  Bellman 
Book  of  Verse 

1906-1919 


»    »o»  -- 


Chosen  and  Edited  by 

WILLIAM  C.  EDGAR 

late  Editor  of  The  Bellman 


Minneapolis,  Minn.,  U.  S.  A. 

The  Bellman  Company 

1919 


■'■■'K  i  !-  ;  ,t»pyrigKt  1919 
by 
The  Bellman  Company 


TO 

A.  R.  E. 

THE  bellman's  BEST  FRIEND 

AND  A 

DISCRIMINATING  READER 

OF  GOOD  VERSE, 

WHO  SUGGESTED  THE 

PUBLICATION  OF 

THIS  BOOK. 


M40515 


PREFACE 

THE  first  manuscript  submitted  to  and  the  first 
bought  by  The  Bellman  was  verse.  Several  short 
poems  by  Arthur  Upson,  purchased  through  a 
mutual  friend,  the  late  Mr.  Edmund  D.  Brooks,  were 
acquired  and  put  aside  for  subsequent  use  almost  a  year 
before  the  first  number  of  The  Bellman  was  printed. 

It  was  a  part  of  his  original  plan  to  give  room  to 
poetry,  on  the  theory  that  there  was  an  ample  supply  of 
good  material  being  produced  in  America  which,  at 
that  time,  did  not  find  much  opportunity  of  acceptance, 
the  periodicals  publishing  verse  being  limited  and  ap- 
parently disposed  to  use  it  chiefly  as  a  sort  of  stop-gap, 
to  fill  in  otherwise  vacant  spaces  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pages. 

This  plan  was.  discouraged  by  the  earlier  sub-editors 
of  The  Bellman,  who  contended  that  he  could  not  afford 
to  pay  sufficient  to  secure  really  high-class  poetry  and 
certainly  did  not  desire  to  print  any  other.  For  this 
reason,  except  for  occasional  contributions  by  Arthur 
Upson  and  Richard  Burton,  few  verses  appeared  in  his 
pages  during  the  first  years  of  The  Bellman's  existence. 

Later,  it  was  found  possible  to  secure  poetic  contri- 
butions of  the  right  quality  at  the  modest  price  The 
Bellman  was  able  to  pay;  and  it  was  also  found  that  the 
poets,  God  bless  them,  were  not  mercenary  and  liked  the 
way  in  which  their  productions  were  presented  in  The 
Bellman,  appreciating  the  deference  shown  them  in  the 
position  and  typographical  setting  given  their  verses. 

In  time  The  Bellman  grew  famous  for  his  poetry  and 
the  good  poets  became  increasingly  kind  to  him,  so  that, 
toward  the  end,  there  was  never  a  lack  of  this  material 
with  which  to  embellish  his  pages  and  seldom  a  number 
that  did  not  contain  some  notable  verse. 

The  Bellman  counted  himself  most  fortunate  in  the 
friendship  and  good  will  of  the  poets,  and  while,  being 


PREFACE 

human,  lie  had  his  favorites  among  them,  yet  never  was 
a  poem  accepted  or  rejected  because  of  its  writer's  name. 
For  this  reason,  perhaps,  The  Bellman  had  the  very  great 
satisfaction  of  printing  the  contributions  of  compara- 
tively unknown  poets  who  subsequently  became  celebrated 
and  now  find  their  oflferings  eagerly  accepted  by  periodi- 
cals that  once  knew  them  not.  Possibly  on  this  account, 
as  well  as  because,  by  honouring  verse  with  a  position  of 
distinction  in  his  columns,  he  taught  many  to  read  and 
love  contemporary  poetry  who  hitherto  had  ignored  it. 
The  Bellman  may  justly  claim  to  have  been  of  some  small 
service  to  American  poetry  during  his  thirteen  years 
of  life. 

Had  it  been  possible  within  the  limits  of  this  small 
volume  to  have  printed  all  the  poems  which  appeared  in 
The  Bellman,  it  would  gladly  have  been  done,  for  none 
of  them  was  unworthy  of  republication,  but  only  a  selec- 
tion was  permissible  and,  while  many  are  omitted  with 
regret,  those  here  printed  have  been  carefully  chosen  as 
the  favorites  of  The  Bellman. 

These  are  here  presented,  as  nearly  as  possible,  in  the 
order  of  their  original  appearance  with  the  belief  that 
their  chronological  sequence  will  be  interesting  to  the 
reader  as,  in  some  degree,  indicating  the  development  of 
the  authors  in  their  art  as  well  as  that  of  The  Bellman 
in  respect  of  his  appreciation  thereof. 

— W.  C.  E. 


RICHARD  BURTON 
Christmas  Tide 

CHRISTMAS  tide  is  a  time  of  cold. 
Of  weathers  bleak  and  of  winds  ablow; 
Never  a  flower — fold  on  fold 
Of  grace  and  beauty — tops  the  snow 
Or  breaks  the  black  and  bitter  mold. 

And  yet  'tis  warm — for  the  chill  and  gloom 
Glow  with  love  and  with  childhood's  glee; 
And  yet  'tis  sweet — with  the  rich  perfume 
Of  sacrifice  and  of  charity. 
Where  are  flowers  more  fair  to  see? 

Christmas  tide,  it  is  warm  and  sweet: 
A  whole  world's  heart  at  a  Baby's  feet ! 


EDITH  IVES  WOODWORTH 
An  Italian  Garden 


B 


ELOW  a  little  shadowed  hill 
*  My  garden-ways  wind  cool; 
A  hundred  pale-lipped  lilies  lie 
Above  a  purple  pool. 


Gray  dusk  upon  the  olive  trees 
And  oh — the  heart  o'  me! 

For  all  the  winds  of  Italy 
Are  blowing  in  from  sea! 


;  ;  ;         EDITIf  , THOMPSON 

3«c  V  *  •  1  •  Sky  <Shd4ows 

OUR  most  high  moo(is  ai^e  like  swift  shadowings 
of  clouds 
Crossing  the  hill,  midafternoon,  and  gone; 
Never  to  come  again  to  this  high   ridge 
To  loiter  where  spring  violets  come,  and  come  anon; 
leaving  no  track  across  the  sunswept  grass 
That  we  may  trace  the  going  of  their  way. 

O  eyes,  that  linger  where  the  grass  was  dark, 
With  gaze  that  holds  the  golden  afternoon, 
Image  immortally  the   shadowy  mood 
Crossing  your  inner  sight  to  vanish  soon 
Leaving  no  trail  whereby  the  soul  may  pass 
Into  this  yearning,  where  it  turns  to  pray. 


ARTHUR  UPSON 

4.  *'Up  the  Minnesota'' 

UP  the  Minnesota  through  the  mellow  June, 
Sky  beneath  our  paddles  tessellated  blue; 
Cottonwoods  were  moulting,  meadow-larks  in  tune- 
Up  the  green-roofed  river  shot  our  shell  canoe. 

I  was  stroking  forward,  you  were  stroking  stern. 
Under  oaks  and  maples  like  a  bird  wc  flew; 
Kingfishers,  canaries,  even  cranes  might  learn 
Points  on  steady  steering,  watching  that  canoe. 

Overhead  the  blackbird  flashed  a  crimson  feather; 
Down   the  marshy   clearing  ^'Indian   paint-brush"   grew; 
Iris,  gold  and  azure,  half  a  mile  together;— 
Colors  veered  and  vanished  past  our  fleet  canoe. 

2 


ARTHUR  UPSON 

Afternoon  forgot  us  for  the  yesterdays; 
Then  with  slowing  measure  up  to  shore  we  drew; 
Long  we  sat  in  silence  by  our  dead-wood  blaze, 
Heard  the  drowsy  river  calling  our  canoe. 

Fumes  of  fragrant  coifee,  pungent  smoke  of  wood, 
Blankets  spread  for  slumber  'neath  the  tipped  canoe  ;- 
Oh,  the  golden  Summer !     Sweet  it  was  and  good 
Up  the  Minnesota  camping  out  with  you ! 


NINA  MORAIS  COHEN 
5.  The    Conqueror 

IN  glittering  gold  and  burnished  bronze  they  stand, 
In  velvet-green,  storm-frayed  and  summer-torn, 
Not  like  the  little  leaves — the  leaves  just  born. 
Sung  by  the  Tuscan.    This  a  veteran  band 
Waiting  the  Conqueror. 

In  ranks  of  crimson — pageant  of  delight — 
Old  fire  imprisoned  in  the  summer  days, 
Hiding  their  shriveled  wounds,  they  light  the  ways 

With  glows  and  flushings  for  the  austere  sight 
Of  the  near  Conqueror. 

Fearless,  they  stand  in  splendor  of  array. 
Erect,  not  languorous,  in  the  autumn  sun, 
One  flash  consummate  ere  their  task  is  done, 

Reluctant  to  depart,  yet  loth  to  stay — 
Hail  Conqueror ! 


E 


EDITH   THOMPSON 

Rommany  Roads 

LFIN  rings  are  gone,  and  the  ashen  ring  is  blowing 
Far  from  the  empty  camp  of  gypsy-haunted  dell ; 
Fairy  songs  are  gone,  their  echoes  all  are  going 
Down  the  winding  road  of  Rom — O  Comrade,  is   it 
well? 


Dreams  are  not  true,  their  fire-charm  is  dying 

Only  in  the  glinting  eyes  of  vagrant  men  of  hell. 

Their  whispers  of  the  future  prove  us  they  are  lying — 
Let  them  hear  the  ocean  roar,  so  we  hold  the  shell. 

Still  dance  our  hearts  away  beyond  our  voice's  following, 
Drawn  by  the  power  unseen  that   makes   the   ocean 
swell ; 

Is  not  the  gypsy  call  to  our  spirits-  halloing. 

Louder  in  its  unheard  sound  than  ring  of  blessed  bell? 

Love-lure  and  fancy-fire,  willow-wisp  and  charming, 
Crimson  flash  of  gypsy-robe  and  starlight  in  a  well, 

Never  yet  were  caught  and  held,  robbed  of  sting  alarm- 
ing- 
See,  the  wind  has  blown  the  ash,  where  we  cannot  tell. 

Gold  at  the  rainbow-end  they  alone  go  hoping; 

Star  falling  through  the  night,  they  your  meaning  tell ; 
Hazel-twig,  moon-witched,  secret  spring-deeps  oping. 

Your  streams  cross  only  roads  of  Rom — O  Comrade, 
is  it  well? 


ARTHUR  UPSON 
Minstrels    in    Bloomshury 

TO  Covent  Garden  people  stream 
To  drink  the  music  there; 
We  stand  along  the  curb  and  dream 
To  melodies  more  rare: 
Sing  on,  enchanted  mninstr el-girl, 
Thou  artless,  young  and  fair! 

The  'busses  of  Southampton  Row, 

The  jingling  hansoms  here, 
Bear  London,  heedless,  to  and  fro 

In  search  of  evening  cheer: 
For  uts,  thou  art  enough,  dear  voice 

Forgetful-sweet  and  clear! 

Our  daylong  toil  but  goes  to  win 

Another  toilsome  day; 
Play  on,  oblivious  violin! 

Soft  harp,  beseech  thee,  play! 
And  thou,  pale  girl,  with  eyes  a/lame, 

Sing  on  for  us  who  stay! 


LEWIS  WORTHIXGTON  SMITH 

Only  a  Rose 

LET  this  but  be  my  guerdon 
J  As  we  part, 

The  flower  that  lies  a  burden 
On  your  heart. 
Only  a  rose. 
Its  leaves  shall  close 
Over  a  thought  of  you  too  sweet  and  fair 
To  lose  itself  in  perfume  on  the  air. 


LEWIS  WORTHINGTON  SMITH 

Let  this  be  one  last  token 

Ere  I  break 
My  heart  with  things  unspoken 
For  your  sake. 
Only  a  rose. 
In  your  repose 
It  leaves  no  pain  of  memories  that  cry 
Their  vain  reproaches  while  your  joy  goes  by. 

Let  this  be  but  my  passion 

Flung  away, 
The  pretty,  changing  fashion 
Of  a  day. 
Only  a  rose, 
Its  petals  close 
Over  a  smile  you  gave.     If  you  forget, 
My  heaven  is  that  I  brought  you  no  regret. 


CHARLES  CARTER  ROLLIT 

The  Dreamer 

THE  dreamer  dreamed:  and  the  busy  world 
Passed  by  with  a  mocking  smile, 
As  it  went  in  search  of  the  world's  rewards. 
But  the  dreamer  dreamed  the  while. 

He  saw  the  world,  as  the  world  should  be. 

When  longer  years  had  run. 
And  the  world  but  paused  in  its  work  to  ask: 

"Pray,  what  has  the  dreamer  done?" 


CHARLES  CARTER  ROLLIT 

Yet  ever  the  dreamer  dreamed  his  dream, 

Until,  in  some  wondrous  way — 
As  the  water  springing  in  deeps  of  earth, 

Finds  passage  to  upper  day — 

The  dreamer's  dream  found  the  man  of  power — 
'Tis  strange  how  men's  lives  are  knit — 

Who  knew  not  the  dreamer,  but  took  his  dream 
And  transformed  the  world  with  it. 

The  world  bows  down  to  the  man  of  power — 

Forgotten  the  dreamer  lies- 
Yet  the  dream  he  dreamed  is  the  secret  force 

That  has  forged  man's  destinies. 


ARTHUR  UPSON 

10.  The  Sons  of  Men 

THE  whine  of  the  Weak  to  God  on  High  arose: 
"Hast  Thou  made  all  things,  O  Lord,  for  the  Great, 
our  foes? 
Behold,  how  under  the  Strong  our  ranks  are  hurled! 
Tell  us,  O  Lord,  for  whom  mad'st  Thou  Thy  world?" 

And  the   Ancient  of  Days  looked   down  on  the   cripple 

throng. 
And   answered,  ''I  made  My   world  for   the   Great  and 

Strong!" 

The  rage  of  the  Great  arose  to  God  on  High: 
"We  are  baffled  by  cowards  that  twist  our  schemes  awry ! 
We  are  dragged  to  earth  by  the  weaklings  everywhere! 
For  whom  mad'st  Thou  Thy  world,  O  God,  declare?" 

And  the  Lord  replied  from  His  lofty  place  apart, 

"7  made  My  icorld  for  the  Weak  and  Faint  of  Heart!" 

T 


ARTHUR  UPSON 
11.  Attar  of  Roses 


0 


YEARS,  I  charge  you,  be  as  a  flower. 

As  a  rose  to  the  friends  I  love; 
Red  with  life,  and  sweet  with  power 
That  comes  from  the  sun  above! 


Petals  that  perish  one  by  one, 

Falling  away  like  these, 
Are  the  red  years  ripening  under  the  sun 

In  the  yard  of  the  centuries. 

As  they  fall,  as  they  fall,  so  may  they  fall 

That  tenderly  like  to  these. 
They  shall  fade  but  to  sweeten  some  soul  withal 

From  the  rose-bowl  of  memories. 
Christmas  J  1904. 


LILY  A.  LONG 

12.  When  She  Came 

A  LL  the  maples  were  aflame 
J^\^        As  she  came 

Through  the  long  and  shadowy  alleys  of  the  cool 
September  wood. 
Goldenrod  with  yellow  plume. 
Asters  purple  in  their  bloom, 
Sprang  to   spread   a   royal  carpet   in   the   places   where 
she   stood. 
And  my  heart  was   all   aflame 
As  she  came 

8 


LILY  A.  LONG 

Through  the  long  and  silent  alleys  that  must  lead  her 
unto  me. 
Flowers  before  unknown,  unguessed, 
Woke  where'er  her  footstep  pressed, 
And  my  life   outbroke   in  beauty,   since   her   eyes   were 
there  to  see. 


ARTHUR  UPSON 
13.    Of  Marguerite  Playing  Airs  from  Carmen 

THERE'S  a  new  beauty  thrilling  in  my  soul 
When  I  behold  those  supple,  childish  hands 
Winning  the  proud  piano  to  control, 
Taming  the  passionate  music  of  wild  lands: 

Slender  maid-fingers  rousing  melodies 
Within  the  mighty  sleeping  instrument 

Where  thunder-toned  sonatas  lie  at  ease, 
And  infinite  fair  fugues  dream  on  content ! 

Soft  girl-hands  that  transpose  the  airs  of  Spain 
By  white,  still  magic  to  a  lovelier  key 

Unknown  to  wise  maestri,  and  in  vain 

Looked  for  in  books  where  written  measures  be! 

I  almost  think  that  Carmen's  is  no  more 

The  madly  willful  heart,  but  fine  and  sweet. 

And  that  her  voice,  not  mournful  as  of  yore. 
Sings  joy  beneath  the  touch  of  Marguerite! 


ARTHUR  UPSON 
14.  When  the  Song  Is  Done 

(The  last  poem  written  by  Arthur  Upson) 

WHEN  the  song  is  done 
And  his  heart  is  ashes, 
Never  praise  the  Singer 
Whom  you,  silent,  heard. 
What  to  him  the  sound? 

What  your  eyes'  fond  flashes? 
When  the  singing's  over 
Say  no  word ! 

Ye  who  darkling  stood. 

Think,  your  noon  of  praises. 

Can  it  glimmer  down 
To  his  deepset  bower? 

Never  round  him  shone 
Once   your   garden-mazes : 

Now  his  wandering's  over 
Bring  no  flower! 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

15.  In  Memory  of  Arthur  Upson 

STILL  round  the  fire  we  cling  with  hands  outspread. 
He  has  stepped  forth  and  closed  the  door  behind 
Upon  a  moment's  errand,  but  with  kind 
Solicitude  has  left  us  in  his  stead 
This  eager  fire  with  seasoned  timber  fed. 

Draw  close,  and  watch  the  ardent  colors  wind 
The  big  sticks  round,  with  ocean-tears,  embrined. 
This  fire  will  last  our  stay  out,  have  no  dread! 


RICHARD  WARNER  BORST 

16.  Another  Day 

TODAY  I  found  a  grass-grown  grave,  and  read 
The  rain-worn  name  upon  the  leaning  stone; 
And  felt,  with  sudden  awe,  the  years  long  sped 
O'er  the  dead  face  of  her  laid  there  alone. 

And  I  forgot  that  on  another  day 

Some  stranger  soul  may  read  the  far-fled  year 
Above  my  face,  and  in  the  silence  say, — 

"I^ong  hath  he  lain  beneath  the  cypress  here!" 


HELEN  A.  SAXON 

17.  Just  Once  a  Year 

JUST  once  a  year  the  Saskatoon 
Arrays  herself  in  filmy  white 
And  glimmers  in  the  misty  moon, 
A  fairy  bride  for  love  bedight. 

Just  once  a  year  the  columbine 
Puts  on  her  dainty  scarlet  hood 

To  join  the  gypsies  brave  and  fine 
That  dance  within  the  windy  wood. 

And  once  a  year  when  purple  fires 
Are  lighted  in  the  lilac  tree 

What  wistful  hopes  and  far  desires 
Ache  softly  at  the  heart  of  me! 

Just  once  a  year  the  world  is  filled 
With  beauty  in  such  wild  excess 

That  we  as.  at  a  shrine  are  stilled 
And  satisfied  with  loveliness ! 

11 


I 


HAROLD   B.   CROZIER 

18.  The  Men  of  Iron 

SING  of  the  Men  of  Iron, 
Who  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Full  fifty  years  and  more  ago. 
Through  winter's  numbing,  drifting  snow, 
And  then  when  summer's  sun  was  high, 
Bravely  built  the  iron  highway, 
Over  Indian  trail  and  byway, 
Over  the  wilder  West, 
Over  the  mountain  crest, 
Over  the  river's  breast. 

Aye,  sing  of  the  Men  of  Iron; 
Young  men  who  dreamed  the  dreams, 
Old  men  who  saw  the  visions  grand 
Of  Western  empire,  mighty,  spanned 
By  engine  travelled  trail  that  gleams 
From  where  the  lakes  and  streams  abound 
On  and  on  to  Puget  Sound, 
Over  prairies  wide, 
Over  the  Main  Divide, 
On  to  the  ocean's  side. 

Yes,  sing  of  these  Men  of  Iron; 

Undying  be  their  fame. 

For  many  a  graceful,  arching  bridge. 

And  many  a  conquered  mountain  ridge, 

And  many  a  city  bears  their  name. 

Empire  Builders,  they  of  old, — 

Poets,  prophets,  princes   bold: 

Men  of  Iron — strong. 

To  you  shall  e'er  belong 

A  glad,  triumphant  song. 


EDITH  THOMPSON 

19.  Christ  Mass  for  Toilers 

COME  in  from  the  plowing,  and  the  sowing,  and  the 
reaping,  and  the  garnering  of  lands; 
Come  in  from  the  spinning,  and  the  weaving,  and 
the   shaping   of   the   scarlet   garments   'gainst 
the  cold; 
From  the  hunting,  and  the  slaying,  for  the  feasts  of 

hungry  lips; 
From  the  delving,  and  the  melting,  and  the  coining 

of  gold; 
From  the  sea,  and  the  toiling  of  the  ships; 
Come  in  from  the  hewing,  and  the  sawing,  and  the  build- 
ing of  the  house  with  hands; 
Gather  round  the  cradle  of  the  Babe,  hushed  and  serious. 
And  let  those  eyes  of  innocence,  deep  and  mysterious, 
Search  yours  to  find  if  there  be  any  room  for  him 
In  the  bent  form,  the  lined  face,  the  hidden  soul  and  dim. 

In  that  look,  you  will  remember  dumb,  hurt  things; 
You  will  recall  the  loud  cry  upon  the  hills  when  great 

trees  fell. 
The  sighing  keen  of  grain,  when  sickles  sing, 
The  kindnesses   forgot,  when   the   shine  of  gold   seemed 
wise. 

You  needs  must  grieve. 
And,  in  the  great  foreshadowing  of  those  infant  eyes. 
The  deep  significance,  the  solemn  gift  of  all  this  sacrifice 
You  will  receive. 

And  you  will  turn  in  humbleness  away 

To  celebrate  with  heart  subdued  this  holy  day 

In  the  house  of  your  soul, 
At  a  table  spread  to  fill  love's  highest  need, 
Clothed  in  garb  woven  out  of  tenderness  indeed; 
In  the  house  of  your  soul,  the  temple  of  high  God. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

(His  last  poems) 

20.  The  Front  of  Morn 

FROM  labours  through  the  night,  outworn, 
Above  the  hills,  the  front  of  morn 
We  see,  whose  eyes  to  heights  are  raised. 
And  the  world's  wise  ones  call  us  crazed. 
While  yet  her  lord  lies  under  seas. 
She  takes  us,  as  the  wind  the  trees' 
Delighted  leafage;  all  in  song 
We  mount  to  her,  to  her  belong. 


21.  A  Wilding  Flower 

A  WILDING  little  stubble  flower 
The  Sickle  scorned  which  cut  for  wheat ; 
Such  was  our  hope  in  that  dark  hour 
When  nought  save  uses  held  the  street. 
And  daily  pleasures,  daily  needs. 
With  barren  vision  looked  abroad. 
And  still  the  same  result  of  seeds 
Gave  likeness  'twixt  the  live  and  dead. 


22.  Love  of  Nature 

THIS  love  of  nature,  that  allures  to  take 
Irregularity  for  harmony 

Of  larger  scope  than  our  hard  measures  make; 
Cherish  it  as  thy  school  for  when  on  thee 
The  ills  of  life  descend. 


NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CONOR 

23.  Kareol 

1IKE  Tristram  desolate  by  a  sunlit  sea, 
J I   wait   for  you,   Beloved,  and   I   stand 
Gazing  forever  toward  a  foreign  land, 
Where  you  sojourn  and  where  I  cannot  be; 
But  here  the  waters  sparkle  joyfully 
And,  heartsick,  I  desire  God's  almighty  hand. 
That  I  may  cross  the  ocean,  as  that  band 
Which  walked  dryshod  to  life  and  victory. 
You  wander  in  old  cities,  still  and  gray, 
And  with  the  hum  of  summer,  or  the  breath 
Of  spring,  or  thin-toned  bells  at  close  of  day. 
Perchance  the  thought  of  me  will  come,  like  Death, 
And  sink  into  your  soul,  and  take  away 
Something  of  you,  to  show  that  you  keep  faith. 

NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CONOR 

24.  For  a  Book 

A  MONK  once  labored  in  a  lonely  cell. 
Gilding  the  pages  of  a  missal  rare. 
And   those   who   passed   looked   in   to   see  him 
there. 
His  lips  soft  smiling,  and  a  light  that  fell 
Glorious  about  his  head;  and  one  would  tell: 
"Here  sits  he  all  the  day  and  will  not  spare 
Himself  for  weariness,  but  his  look  will  bear 
Such  peace  as  in  God's  face  alone  may  dwell." 
Lady,  I  give  thee  this  and  ask  thee  here, 
To  read  these  pages  in  the  light  that  made 
The  monk  smile  always,  and  his  task,  each  year, 
Grow  lighter  and  his  soul  more  unafraid: 
Love  had  its  wonder  on  his  spirit  laid; 
And  in  that  vision's  brightness  all  was  dear. 

15 


PAULINE  CARRINGTON  BOUVE 

25.  Divided 

NOT  by  the  gray,  dividing  seas, 
Nor  by  the  mountain's  circling  height, 
Nor  by  the  river's  winding  length, — 
Ah!  by  none  of  these 
Was  thy  life  loosed  from  mine.     Only  the  might 
Of  wrong  done  for  wrong's  sake  could  compass 

strength 
To  break  the  bonds  of  wedded  faith  and  love 
And  send  me  henceforth  on  my  path  alone ! 
Knowing  that  sin  divides,  but  loving  prayer 

To  God's  high  place  above. 
As  surely  as  'tis  sent  will  find  a  way 
To  bring  thee  to  thy  soul's  fair  dwelling  place 
Which  thou  hast  left,  I,  meanwhile,  am  content. 
Since  God  has  given  me  power  to  smite  and  stay 
The  crime  of  unforgiveness  from  my  heart 

And  given  me  grace 
That  for  thy  soul's  best  good  I  still  may  pray. 


AILEEN  CLEVELAND  HIGGINS 

26.  Signals 

INTO  a  garden  that  I  know  and  love 
A-quiver  with  sweet  bud  and  bloom. 
All  warm  with  glowing  sun  above — 
There  stole  today  a  sudden  gloom. 
The  shadow  of  the  fog  crept  there 

And  into  chill  of  shifting  gray  was  drawn 
The  brightness  of  my  garden  fair — 
As  held  in  clouded  dawn. 

16 


AILEEN  CLEVELAND  HIGGINS 

The  sun  was  lost — but  through  the  gray 

There  gleamed  my  rose — brave  bit  of  red; 
Then  came  another  signal  gay — 

White  shimmer  from  my  lily-bed; 
And  so  when  shadows  strike  across 

Our  lives,  and  take  the  glamour  of  the  light, 
There  flash  quick  smiles  to  brighten  loss — 

Kind  eyes — ^how  good  to  sight ! 

AGNES  LEE 
27.  Valentine 

10!  he  knocks  at  your  door, 
_j      In  the  moonshine. 

Bid  him  the  threshold  o'er, — 
Poor  Valentine! 

Warmth  may  he  never  win. 

Cold  are  the  stars. 
Red  is  the  fire  within. 

Fast  are  the  bars. 

All  within  guards  complete 

Joy  warm  and  still. 
None  saw  the  sorry  feet 

Trudge  up  the  hill. 

None  knew  the  song,  apart. 

Patient  and  long. 
None  heard  a  breaking  heart 

Sob  in  the  song. 

Dim  grows  the  curtained  light. 

Soft  is  the  sign: 
He  may  forth  in  the  night, — 

Poor  Valentine! 

17 


RICHARD  BURTON 
28.  Clown's  T>ay 

(Choosing  April  First  as  an  appropriate  day,  a  number  of 
professional  clowns  held  a  meeting  in  New  York  to  perfect  a 
permanent  organization.) 


B 


ROTHER  fools  from  everywhere, 

Let  us  gather  and  grow  wise. 
Ours  the  day,  so  let  us  6»i?e 
Show  the  world  our  sober  guise. 


We  must  mum  it  through  the  year. 
Hide  behind  the  painted  grin; 

Let  us  be  more  human  here, 
Men  of  memories,  men  of  sin. 

Life's  no  jest,  we  know  it  well; 

Care  lurks  close  behind  the  scene. 
Heaven's  not  half  so  sure  as  hell 

For  a  clown  whose  purse  is  lean. 

Ours  to  make  the  simple  laugh, 
Ours  to  give  the  sad  surcease; 

This  our  only  epitaph: 

"Here  the  jester  is  at  peace." 

God  above !    We  merry  men 
Smile  and  caper  up  and  down. 

Sing  our  foolish  catches,  when 

Death  looks  sweet  to  many  a  clown. 

We  are  fain  to  weep  and  love. 

Pray,  and  think  of  mighty  things; 

Turn  our  dreamy  gaze  above. 
Mount  to  visions,  float  on  wings. 

Twenty  raptures  may  go  by 

Just  outside  the  big  white  tent; 

We  would  taste  them  ere  we  die, 
Since  for  this  our  life  was  lent. 

18 


RICHARD  BURTON 

We  must  pace  the  little  ring; 

Yet  Life  has  her  golden  goals 
For  us  all,  to  that  we  cling; 

Clowns  are  we, — but  living  souls ! 

Lads  in  motley,  brothers  dear. 
Gather  now  and  hark  to  me: 

April  Fools,  our  day,  is  here; 
I-^t  us  use  it  soberly. 

HELEN  LANYON 

29.  Mdire 

WHEN  Maire  at  the  fireside  sits, 
A  farmer's  lass  in  homespun  dressed; 
I  watch  her  as  she  sews  or  knits. 
And  there  is  hunger  in  my  breast. 

My  thought  is  all  a  wand'ring  dream, 

I  see  her  not  as  others  may, 
A  young  girl  in  the  firelight's  gleam. 

Doing  her  work  at  close  of  day. 

I  see  a  queen  all  shod  with  gold. 

And  crowned  with  gems  of  glittering  fire, 

Her  royal  robes  about  her  rolled, 
Too  great  for  any  man's  desire. 

I  see  a  saint  whose  holy  eyes 

Have  looked  beyond  all  evil  things. 

To  catch  in  fields  of  Paradise 

A  sudden  glint  of  rainbow  wings. 

And  I  am  troubled  in  her  sight. 

My  throat  is  choked  with  swelling  tears, 

The  queen's  too  high,  the  saint's  too  white: — 
I.  must  go  lonely  all  my  years. 

19 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

30.  The  Voice  of  the  Unborn 

FROM  the  Unseen  I  come  to  you  tonight, 
The  Hope  and  Expectation  of  your  world. 
I  am  Omniscience  that  seeks  of  you 
A  tongue  to  utter  the  Eternal  Thought. 
I  am  Omnipotence  that  claims  of  you 
The  tools  whereby  my  power  may  profit  earth. 
All  love  am  I,  that  seeks  to  spend  itself 
Embodied  in  a  human  sacrament. 
For  I  have  heard  the  wailing  of  the  world, 
Not  faint  and  far  away  as  in  a  dream; 
But  very  near — and  lo,  I  understood 
It  need  not  be.    Wherefore  I  come  to  you. 

O  you  to  whom  my  tenderness  goes  out. 

To  whom  I  fain  would  bring  an  end  of  groans 

And  blind,  bewildered  tears,  a  cloudless  dawn 

Of  unimagined  joy  and  strength  unguessed. 

What  welcome  will  you  give  to  me,  O  World? 

Since  I  whose  dwelling  is  the  universe 

Will  stoop  to  walls  and  rafters  for  your  sake. 

What  is  the  home  you  have  prepared  for  me  ? 

O  Men  and  Women,  is  it  beautiful, 

A  place  of  peace,  a  house  of  harmony? 

Will  you  be  glad,  who  know  me  as  I  am, 

To  see  me  make  my  habitation  there? 

Since  I  will  hamper  my  divinity 

With  weight  of  mortal  raiment  for  your  sake. 

What  vesture  have  you  woven  for  my  wear? 

O  Man  and  Woman  who  have  fashioned  it 

Together,  is  it  fine  and  clean  and  strong, 

Made  in  such  reverence  of  holy  joy 

Of  such  unsullied  substance,  that  your  hearts 

Leap  with  glad  awe  to  see  it  clothing  me, 

The  glory  of  whose  nakedness  you^know? 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Oh  long,  long  silence  of  the  wakening  years ! 
Thus  have  I  called  since  man  took  shape  as  man; 
Thus  will  I  call  till  all  mankind  shall  heed 
And  know  me,  who  today  am  one  with  God, 
And  whom  tomorrow  shall  behold,  your  child. 
From  the  Unseen  I  come  to  you  tonight — 


0 


AGNES  LEE 

Forest  Fires 

MOTHER,  I  cannot  sleep  tonight, 

For  the  air  blows  thick  from  the  dune. 
And  through  my  windoio  a  glaring  fright 
Peeps  the  blood-red  face  of  the  moon! 


Far  from  our  village,  little  lad. 

The  forest  fires  are  raging. 
The  fire-king  hastens  hard  and  mad, 

His  furious  battle  waging. 

His  doomful  breath  has  every  town. 
As  through  the  distant  mazes 

Of  woodland  green  he  rushes  down, 
And  scorches  black  the  daisies. 

He  gathers  little  homes  and  mills. 

He  beats  apart  the  bridges, 
And  leaps  the  streams  and  climbs  the  hills 

And  flames  the  mountain-ridges. 

Tall  in  the  land  sweet  hosts  of  pines 
Are  flanking  close  to  daunt  him. 

But  he  shall  mow  their  million  lines, 
And  onward  still  shall  vaunt  him. 


AGNES  LEE 

All  beauty  smites  he  with  his  hand, 

Himself  its  last  beholder. 
Twice  twenty  miles  of  timberland 

Upon  his  pathway  smoulder. 

Look,  mother,  the  world  seems  thirsting  so! 

The  day  and  the  night  are  one. 
And  over  the  gables  leaning  loio 

The  moon  is  as  red  as  the  sun! 

But  I'll  draw  together  my  curtains  dark. 

And  back  in  my  bed  again 
ril  pray  me  asleep,  or,  waking,  hark 

For  the  sound  of  the  conquering  rain. 


NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CONOR 

32.  To  Eva  in  Paradise 

I  GAVE  you  all  my  heart,  so  long  ago 
I  have  forgotten  when  the  gift  was  made, 

Receiving  part  of  yours,  that  I  might  know 

How  great  a  portion  in  my  hands  was  laid. 
Each  morn  I  leave  the  ready  task  of  life. 

And  seek  the  corner  where  your  heart,  enshrined, 
Lends  peace  which,  with  a  thousand  colors  rife. 

Fills  every  chamber  of  my  eager  mind. 
Lady,  I  look  to  you  as  men  of  old 

Looked  to  their  Virgin,  and  like  them  I  pray: 
"Lead  me  but  upward;  give  me  grace  to  hold 

Fast  to  the  spirit  and  escape  the  clay." 
Your  heart,  perchance,  some  day  all  mine  will  be. 
Why  should  I  ask?     Enough  is  granted  me. 

22 


RUTH  SHEPARD  PHELPS 


B 


The  Subway 

ROADWAY  roars  above  my  head, 

China  seethes  below. 
As  I — swiftly,  strangely  sped — 
Through  the  dark  earth  go. 


Barks  are  riding  on  the  sea, 

Air-ships  skim  the  blue: 
Iron  chariots  carry  me 

These  dim  caverns  through. 

Fleeing  'neath  a  churchyard  old, 

Next  the  quiet  dead, 
Rushing  past  we  stir  their  mould. 

Shake  their  ancient  bed. 

Underneath  the  river  now! 

Waters  of  the  sea 
Cleft  by  some  great  ship's  smooth  prow 

Sweeping  over  me! 

Dante,  pilgrimaging  where 

Lucifer  was  hurled. 
Journeyed  not  thus  debonair 

Through  the  underworld! 


Thus  I  mused  as  on  we  swept 
Forty   fathoms   down. 

Then,  my  journey  done,  I  stept 
Out  into  the  town. 


ALLAN   UPDEGRAFF 

84.  Lament  for  an  Owl 


A 


LONG  the  edge  of  dusk  he'd  hoot  and  howl, 
A  most  down-hearted,  lonesome  sort  of  owl, 
A  grim,  sardonic  bird,  a  graveyard  fowl. 

He  spoiled  the  singing  of  the  hermit  thrust; 

The  whippoorwill 

Grew  suddenly  still 
When  his  outlandish  hoots  broke  evening's  hush. 

Wherefore  I  counted  it  a  cause  for  joy 
When  one  nightfall  I  met  the  general  pest. 

Whom  gently  I  addressed: 

Just  sit  you  there,  old  boy. 
And  take  a  hint  from  those  your  hoots  annoy. 
Myself,  the  hermit  thrush,  and  all  the  rest. 
With  which  I  shot  him  through  his  speckled  breast. 

He  tumbled  down,  torn  breast  and  ruddled  jowl. 

That  poor  old  owl! 
In  after  dusks  the  sweet,  light  poets  made 
Music  as  sweet  in  the  moon-enameled  shade; 
But  I  missed  my  wise  old  hooter  from  his  glade, 
My  questioning  seer,  my  wearer  of  the  cowl. 

Long  since  departed  thrush  and  whippoorwill. 
Leaving  me  lonely  on  my  windy  hill; 
And  now  that  woods  are  bare  and  ways  are  foul, 
Much  more  I  miss  my  owl. 


REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 
35.  My  Brother 

"And   he   said    unto   him,    Man,    who   made   me   a   judge    or 
divider  over  you?" — St.   Luke,  xii,   14. 


I 


CANNOT  see  what  many  see: 

A  Heaven  far  distant  from  the  clod; 
I  seek  and  find,  not  two  or  three, 

But  all  our  persons  in  One  God. 


For  most  the  birth,  'mid  portents  wild, 

The  cryptic  youth  half-sorcerer; 
For  me  the  unnoted,  mangered  child. 

The  manly,  sweating  carpenter; — 
No  great  detective  in  the  skies; 

No  crafty  hand  that  sets  a  snare, 
And  then,  all  powerfully  wise, 

Slays  me  because  I  venture  there; 
But  Him  of  Sorrows,  who  forgave 

The  woman  taken  in  her  sin. 
Who  had  the  human  heart  to  save 

The  sorry-painted  Magdalen. 

Jesus,  they  tremble  at  your  name — 

They  at  high  altars  hymning  low — 
But  would  their  tongues  have  wagged  the  same, 

Say,  nineteen  hundred  years  ago? 
Are  you  their  Lord,  your  servants  those 

Who  for  your  garments  would  have  diced? 
Who  wills  may  dread  the  Master's  blows — 

/  am  your  weaker  brother,  Christ! 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
36.  The  Standard-Bearer 

SWIFTLY  the  shrieking  fire-bird  gleams 
Before  his  blank,  bewildered  face; 
Close  to  his  ear  the  bullet  screams, 
The  battle  swirls  about  his  place. 

One  thought  alone  stands  clear  to  him 
Whose  rigid  hands  the  standard  keep. 

Before  whose  desperate  eyes  and  dim 
The  ranks  reel  by  as  seen  in  sleep, 

One  longing — in  the  orchard  lane, 
Far  from  this  blazing  blare  of  death. 

To  stand  at  twilight  once  again 

And  draw  one  deep,  untroubled  breath. 


HELEN  A.  SAXON 
37.  What  Moved  Him  Most 

WHAT  moved  Him  most — the  lilies  robed  in  white? 
The  flush  of  April  on  the  meadows  wide? 
Dawn  mirrored  in  the  Galilean  tide? 
The  lark's  transporting  song  outpured  in  flight? 
Or — dearer  still  to  yearning  hearts — the  light 
Within  the  eyes  of  those  who  at  His  side 
Braved  prejudice  and  fear  and  would  have  died 
To  save — although  they  slept  that  one  great  night ! 


HELEN  A.  SAXON 

Earth  showed  to  Him  her  most  enchanting  guise, 

And  comradeship  was  never  yet  so  dear, 

Since  He  beheld  with  more  than  mortal  eyes — 

What  was  it  then  that  moved  Him  most  when  here? 

The  lonely,  grieving  heart,  the  leper's  sighs. 

The  sinnefs  anguish  and  the  widow's  tear. 


RICHARD  WARNER  BORST 

38.  Matins 

THE  breezes  of  the  spring 
Have  taken  wing, 
And  on  the  soft  airs  fling, 
From  vaporous  censers  swinging  in  their  hands, 
The  perfumes  of  far  lands. 

And,  as  they  upward  leap, 

Lightly  they  sweep 

The  deep  and  solemn  sounding  strings 

Of  nature's  lyre,  and  sweet  there  rings 
A  note  that  from  the  roadside  springing. 
Sets  every  swaying  tree-top  singing 

The  song  of  growing  things ! 

As  through  the  lanes  I  pass, 

I  hear  in  all  the  dells 

A  music  low,  that  wells 

From  everywhere  and  tells 

Of  joy  among  the  bending  blades  of  grass, 

That  chant  their  early  mass. 


27 


THOMAS  WALSH 
39.  The  Market-Place 


i 


rp^HERE  strode  a  Bedouin  through  the  market-place, 
A  frown  like  some  archangel's  on  his  face. 

And  as  the  merchants  spread  their  richest  ware, 
Their  silver  woofs  and  gold,  their  jeweled  lace, 

Their  gems  of  Samarkand  and  perfumes  rare. 
He  cried  them  off.   ...  "I  seek  a  gift  more  fine  .    .    . 
All  these  Maisuna  hath  .    .    .   and  still  doth  pine." 

Then  whispered  him  his  slave-boy  from  Cashmere: 
"Master  of  Life,  thou  hast  seen  all  things  here. 

Yet  since  no  trinket,  pearl,  nor  vesture  seems 
Of  worth  for  her  whom  thou  dost  hold  most  dear, 

I  know  hard-by  a  little  booth  of  dreams. 
Wherein  a  gentle  scribe  of  Persia  writes 
Such  fond  ghazdls  as  bring  the  heart  delights." 

In  vain  were  gilt  and  santal'd  case  unrolled: 
"Songs  like  to  these  she  hath  in  heaps  untold ! 

What  ho! — some  witch,  some  scholar  from  the  East, 
With  spells  for  sale  for  good  Tunisian  gold!" 

Then  at  his  cloak  plucked  Ishmael  the  priest, 
And  whispered:  '^Lay  beneath  her  feet  thy  pride; 
'Tis  with  the  meek  of  heart  that  love  and  Allah  bide." 


EDITH  THOMPSON 

40.  At  Sunset 

I  CLIMB  the  hill's  steep  stairway 
To  its  galleries  under  the  sky. 
Seeking  but  sanctuary  for  soul  beset,  at  bay 
Within  the  wings  of  music  in  the  wind. 

28 


EDITH   THOMPSON 

Tall  birch  trees  stand  along  the  lane, 

As  down  some  dim,  hushed  aisle. 

Like  white  cathedral  candles,  twain  and  twain, 

Burning  with  soft  fall  fire. 

At  the  end,  through  arching  branches 
John's  vision  of  a  city  new,    • 
Built  out  of  the  lights  of  the  sunset, 
Four  square,  of  fire  and  dew — 
God  of  that  saint  on  Patmos, 
Thou,  God,  revealed  anew. 


ARTHUR  STRINGER 
41.  From  the  New  World  to  the  Old 

DO  you  know  them,  Old-World  Brother,  open  prairies 
of  the  West? 
Do  you  know  them,  Troubled  Spirit,  where  the  out- 
ward trail  is  best? 
Have  you  seen  them  in  the  gloaming,  greening  acres  of 

the  Spring? 
Have  you  watched  them  in  the  autumn  where  the  ripened 
wheatlands  swing? 

Have  you  scented.  Restless  Brother,  through  your  cities 

old  and  gray, 
Once  the  odor  of  the  camp-fire  where  the   North  Trail 

leads  away? 
Have  you  known  this  deep  renewal  where  the  dreams  of 

youth  return. 
Where    the    prairie    meets    the    foothills    and "  the    sunlit 

Rockies  burn? 

29 


ARTHUR  STRINGER 

Have  yau  known  the  thrill  of  rapture  where  the  great 

wide  spaces  call? 
Have   you   faced   the   opal   valleys   where   the  wine-red 

shadows  fall? 
Have  you  raced  into  the  sunrise  down  the  mist-draped 

coulee-slope, 
Where  all  life  is  crowned  with  wonder  and  the  years  are 

young  with  Hope? 


EDWARD  H.  S.  TERRY 
42.  The  Poet 

AH,  heart,  I  know  you're  tired,  I  too  am  torn, 
^^^I  know  you've  suffered — that  you  understand 

The  vigil  of  the  night,  in  sorrow  born. 
The  burden  of  the  people  through  the  land, 
All  this  you  comprehend — and  more  beside. 

You  too  can  comfort  those  who've  loved  and  lost, 
Or  lives  that  have  been  crushed,  yet  outward  pride 
Keeping  the  smiling  face,  whate'er  the  cost; 
And  you  have  been  with  freinds  who  have  just  died, 
Yea!  in  the  valley  also,  near  the  grave. 

And  you  have  sung  with  singer's  voice  sublime. 
Or  battled  in  the  war  with  soldiers  brave; 
You  too  have  spoken  messages  divine. 
And  sailed  with  sturdy  sailors  o'er  the  wave. 
Or  suffered  as  the  prisoners  do  in  jail. 


EDWARD  H.  S.  TERRY 

And  so  you're  weary,  heart  of  mine,  and  sad, 
You  cannot  win  when  others  'round  you  fail, 
But  when  mankind  is  happy,  you  are  glad; 
You  too  are  searching  for  the  Holy  Grail 
And  only  he  that's  pure  in  heart,  shall  find! 

Though  you  may  stand  aloof,  yet  you  behold 
The  inmost  workings  of  each  human  mind; 
The  struggle  of  the  poor  when  days  are  cold. 
The  wretchedness  of  those  that  are  born  blind. 
Are  all  your  portion,  and  you  suflFer  all. 

The  sins  of  others  are  your  sins  also; 

If  men  are  vile  you  too  will  feel  the  fall; 

And  bright  and  burning  thoughts  within  you  glow 

When  man  has  climbed  the  heights  and  gained  the  wall, 

Success  is  yours,  as  well  as  his,  ah!  well. 

But  no  one  shares  your  life  as  on  you  go: 
Along  the  highway,  o'er  the  moor  and  dell, 
Passing  along  through  sunshine,  cloud  and  snow. 
You  too  have  been  in  Paradise  and  Hell, 
And  some  will  call  you  Fool — but  God  is  wise ! 


EDITH   THOMPSON 
43.  A  Quiet  Hour 

EVER  green  and  ever  murmurous  they  stand  against 
the  west. 
Their  shadows  weaving  softly  through  the  grass 
Of  the  old  grave-yard,  where  have  gone  to  rest. 

After   their   day   of    earth   and   stress,   men's    bodies 
brave  and  worn. 

31 


EDITH   THOMPSON 

The  place  is  quiet  like  an  upper  chamber  made  for  sleep 
Close  underneath  the  sky  where  sunsets  aureole  their 
heads, 

The  tall  pines,  dark  and  soothing,  velvet  deep, 

Draw  softest  curtains  'round  their  hour  of  calm. 

In  the  long  sighing  of  the  pines'  unebbing  tide. 
Hear  the  profound  hushed  moving  of  that  vail 

Behind  which,  those  no  longer  here,  abide 
The  years,  unseen,  unheard  of  us  without. 

And  in  their  shifting  shades  that  tread  the  grass, 
Calm  and  unhurried  through  the  afternoon. 

Shadows  within  the  shadows  seem  at  times  to  pass 
Down  the  long  lanes  that  thread  eternity. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

44.  The  Abandoned  Farm 

ALL  in  the  far-set  Shadow-land  it  lies, 
^  Dreaming  away  the  idle  hours  at  will. 
Song  there  is  mute,  and  even  sound  is  still 
As  twilight  when  the  last  day-echo  dies. 
Voiceless,  it  sleeps,  save  where  the  lone  wind  sighs 
Softly,  as  if  to  self,  through  fields  of  grass 
Fallow  and  futile  but  for  bees  that  pass — 
Fields  that  were  Eden-sweet  to  wistful  eyes. 

All  in  the  far-set  Shadow-land  it  waits 

Press  of  tired  feet  which  may  return  no  more. 
Weeds  romp,  in  blossomy  riot,  by  the  door. 

Like  children  gathering  home;  and  where  the  gate's 
Low  wicket  rots  with  age  that  makes  or  mars. 
The  Morning  Glory  mends  the  broken  bars. 
32 


JOHN  CARTER 

45.  Ballade  of  Misery  and  Iron 

HAGGARD  faces  and  trembling  knees, 
Eyes  that  shine  with  a  weakling's  hate, 
Lips  that  mutter  their  blasphemies, 
Murderous  hearts  that  darkly  wait: 
These  are  they  who  were  men  of  late. 
Fit  to  hold  a  plow  or  a  sword. 

If  a  prayer  this  wall  may  penetrate. 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord ! 

Poets  sing  of  life  at  the  lees 

In  tender  verses  and  delicate; 
Of  tears  and  manifold  agonies — 

Little  they  know  of  what  they  prate. 

Out  of  this  silence,  passionate 
Sounds  a  deeper,  a  wilder  chord. 

If  song  be  heard  through  the  narrow  grate, 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord ! 

Hark,  that  wail  of  the  distant  breeze. 

Piercing  ever  the  close-barred  gate, 
Fraught  with  torturing  memories 

Of  eyes  that  kindle  and  lips  that  mate. 

Ah,  by  the  loved  ones  desolate 
Whose  anguish  never  can  pen  record. 

If  Thou  be  truly  compassionate. 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades,  Lord ! 

L'Envoi 
These  are  pawns  that  the  hand  of  Fate 

Careless  sweeps  from  the  checker-board. 
Thou  that  know'st  if  the  game  be  straight. 

Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord! 


33 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
46.  In  April 

I  A  ST  year  I  dreamed  of  days  to  be, 
^  Pale  April  days,  when  you  and  I 
Should  read  God's  dearest  mystery 
Joy-blazoned  upon  earth  and  sky. 
'Tis  April  now — the  robins  sing — 
New  life  is  green  upon  the  hill — 
But  you  have  blossomed  with  the  Spring 
In  violet  and  daffodil. 

The  grass  grows  brighter  on  a  grave: 
Oh  fellow-comrades  of  despair, 
Blossom  our  hearts  more  blithely  brave 
For  what  lies  buried  there? 
The  lovelier  for  hidden  grief 
Unfolds  the  Spring's  green  panoply: 
And  shall  the  frail  unconscious  leaf 
More  godlike  live  than  we? 


HELEN  LANYON 

47.  The  Valley  of  Tears 

THERE'S  a  little  Irish  village  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hill, 
Where  the  folded  valley  turns  toward  the  sea, 
The  wind  is  never  weary  there,  the  waves  are  never  still. 
And  there  I  dwell,  and  Sorrow  dwells  with  me. 

When  all  the  folk  are  sleeping,  and  the  silver-fingered 
moon 
Draws  ghostly  shadow-pictures  on  my  blind, 
I  lie  and  chide  the  loitering  dawn,  and  cry,  "Come  soon, 
ah   soon. 
That  I  may  put  my  sorrow  out  of  mind !" 

34 


HELEN  LANYON 

And  when  the  village  wakens  and  I  go  into  the  street, 
And  see  the  children  playing  in  the  sun, 

And  scent  the  far-off  heather,  and  the  near  sweet  smell 
of  peat, 
I  cry  aloud,  "Would  God  the  day  were  done!" 

The  golden  sun  is  scattered  on  the  lifting,  shifting  wave. 

The  shining  pools  are  flooded  by  the  tide, 
And  on  the  distant  hillside  the  whin's  as  bright  and  brave 

As  e'er  it  was  before  my  lover  died. 

There's  a  little  Irish  village  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Where  the  folded  valley  turns  toward  the  sea, 

The  wind  is  never  weary  there,  the  waves  are  never  still. 
And  there  I  dwell,  and  Sorrow  dwells  with  me. 


NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CONOR 

i8.  The  Dream  City 

I  GAZED  at  you  and  saw  your  eyes  were  sad, 
And  in  that  sadness  I,  too,  had  a  share; 

But  your  hand  crept  near  mine,  and  then  how 
glad 

Was  I,  in  turn,  that  you  had  placed  it  there: 
For  we  together  wandered  through  the  world, 

Amid  its  darkness  we  alone  could  see 
The  path  which,  round  a  rocky  hillside  curled. 

Led  to  the  city  where  our  dreams  would  be. 
Somber  those  walls,  like  shadows  of  the  night. 

And  round  the  turret's  ever-changing  haze ; 
Within  the  streets  the  sad  of  heart  are  bright; 

Love  is  the  stipend  paid  for  happy  days. 
Still  stands  the  city,  and  the  sunset  glow 
Shall  lead  us  thither  by  the  path  we  know. 

35 


RUTH  KAUFFMAN 

4-9.  Le  Jardin  de  France 

GENTLE    touratigelle,   Renee, 
In  your  flowering  garden  gay 
I  can  see  you,  short,  trim  dress, 
Fluted  cap  that  hides  each  tress. 
Sabots  clattering  their  way 
Through  my  dreams  of  you,  Renee. 

Peasant-pretty,  peasant-poor. 

When  you  lived  in  France-wrapped  Tours, 

Virgin  voice  that  sings  and  sings 

In  the  shadow  of  dead  kings, — 

Throat  that  laughs  and  eyes  that  play, — 

These  my  dreams  of  you,  Renee. 

Peasant-maid,  or  peasant-wife. 
Have  you  lost  or  won  with  life? 
Years  ago  you  were  Romance 
Near  the  chdteau'd  Lx)ire  of  France, — 
I  am  half  a  world  away; 
Where  are  you,  Renee,  Renee? 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

50.  To  Mine  Own  People 

WHEN  ye  pass  by  there  is  no  need  to  cry 
Or  call  across  the  tumult  of  the  street. 
In  my  shut  chamber's  hush  where  none  is  nigh 
My  heart  can  hear  you  between  beat  and  beat, — 
Yea,  in  the  silver  hour  can  hear  you  call 
Ere  the  birds'  clamorous  antiphonal 
Ushers  the  morning  up  the  eastern  sky. 

36 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

I  will  not  run  before  my  task  is  done 

To  seek  you,  for  I  know  where'er  you  be 

When  the  hour  strikes,  your  journeys  are  begun, 

And  in  good  time  my  waiting  eyes  shall  see 

Between  the  forest  of  the  huddle  spears 

Of  the  vain  army  of  opposing  years. 

Your  faces  dawn  like  planets,  one  by  one. 

What  care  I  though  you  come  only  to  go? 

Yours  is  the  Highway,  and  from  my  abode 

I  wave  Godspeed  rejoicing,  for  I  know 

Some  day  my  time  will  come  to  take  the  road, — 

To  find  the  fires  you  left,  your  steps  to  trace, 

And  at  the  journey's  ending,  face  to  face 

To  meet  you,  waiting  by  the  Hearth's  calm  glow. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

51.  The  End  of  It 

THE   earth    weighs   down    my    lids — they    forget   the 
feeling  of  tears; 
The  heavy  clods   on  my  heart,  numb  it   to   pleasure 
and  pain. 
And  my  blood  shall  freeze  or  flame  to  your  mood  as  in 
bygone  years 
Never  again,  Beloved, — never  again. 

I  strove  to  see  as  you  saw,  I  strove  to  hear  as  you  heard, 
I  strove  to  stride  with  your  strength,  catching  my  labour- 
ing breath, — 
And  never  you  slackened  your  speed  to  toss  me  a  heart- 
ening word — 
W^eary  to  death,  Beloved— weary  to  death. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

If  you  called  in  the  name  of  our  love,  I  would  not  open 

mine  eyes; 
If  you  called  in  the  name  of  my  sorrow,  no  sigh  would 

stir  in  my  breast; 
If  you  called  me  with  God's  own  voice,  I  would  answer 

not  nor  arise. 
Now  that  I  rest,  Beloved^ — now  that  I  rest. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

52.  The  Cricket  in  the  Path 

SHE  passed  through  the  shadowy  garden,  so  tall  and 
so  white, 
Her  eyes  on  the  stars  and  her  face  like  an  angel's 
upturned, 
And  it  seemed  to  my  thought  that  the  dusk  round  her 
head  with  the  light 
Of  an  aureole  burned. 

But  where  she  had  trodden  unseeing,  I  found  on  the  path 
A  cricket,  so  frail  that  her  light  foot  had  maimed  it,  yet 

strong 
To  valiantly  pipe,  tiny  hero,  a  faint  aftermath 
Of  its  yesterday  song. 

And   I   whispered,   "Alas,   Little   Brother,   why   must   it 

befall 
That  the  passing  of  angels  but  cripples  and  leaves  us 

to  die? 
Poor  imp  of  the  greensward,  God  trumpets  me  clear  in 
thy  call; 
Thou  art  braver  than  I. 
.     38 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

"The  Bright  Ones  of  Heaven  have  trodden  me  down  as 

they  passed; 
I  crawl  in  their  footsteps  a  trampled  and  impotent  thing. 
I  know  not  the  reason,  nor  question  henceforth;  to  the 

last, 
While  I  live,  I  will  sing." 

MARGARET  ADELAIDE  WILSON 


W" 


53.  Not  to  the  Swift 

^E  ran,  and  I  outdistanced  him; 

Yea,  I  had  surely  won  the  race. 

But  as  I  reached  to  touch  the  goal 
My  backward  look  caught  that  man's  soul. 
Straining  from  out  his  weary  face. 
And  all  my  hot  desire  grew  dim. 
How  he  had  toiled,  the  goal  to  gain! 
Could  I  make  that  brave  striving  vain? 

MARGARET  ADELAIDE  WILSON 

54.  The  Fasting  Brother 

RIDES  here  stern  brother  John  to  town 
With  us  poor  sinners,  great  and  small; 
Jew  and  Gentile,  sage  and  clown, 
Light-hearted  school  girl,  soldier  tall. 
Throughout  the  noisy  car  the  while 
Fly  jest  and  laughter,  to  and  fro. 
For  them  he  hath  nor  frown  nor  Smile; 
Aloof,  dispassionate  as  snow. 
Only  his  dark  eyes  seem  to  say, 
"Vanity  this,  and  passeth  away: 
.  For  you,  poor  fools,  I  fast  and  pray." 

39 


MARGARET  ADELAIDE  WILSON 

Yet  last  night,  through  a  garden  gate 

Where  cowled  brothers  pace  the  gloom 

I  saw  him  all  alone  and  late 

Over  a  lilac's  windswept  bloom 

Bent,  with  wrung  hands  and  tortured  brow. 

Was  it  old  passion  racked  him  so?      • 

Dreams,  with  that  scent  resurgent  now? 

I  know  not;  this  alone  I  know, 

That  if  tonight  on  God  he  call 

For  us  poor  sinners,  great  and  small, 

Himself  he  nameth,  chief  of  all! 


REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

55.  The  Easier  Gospel 

"T)ECAUSE,"   He   cries  today,   "for   you 
jj  The  Freeman-of-the-Grave, 

I  rise,  hear  what  I  say  for  you, 
And  use  the  Gift  I  gave. 
I  lived  a  life  of  loss  for  you; 
I  heard  the  world  condemn; 
I  died  upon  a  cross  for  you: 
Do  you  as  much  for  them. 

'*Do  you  as  much  for  them  that  weep. 

As  much  for  them  that  slave; 

Your  brothers  battle  with  the  deep; 

They  labor  in  a  grave. 

Be  you  to  them  that  evil  do 

What  you  would  have  Me  be 

To  you  that  evil  did,  and  you 

This  day  shall  rise  with  Me." 

40 


GEORGE  NORTON  NORTHROP 
56,  Beyond 

OH  Time,  Oh  Space,  Oh  Thoughts  to  be ! 
I  wed  you  gladly,  with  no  sigh; 
And  I  divorce  you  and  am  free 
For  death,  to  live  again  and  die. 

Upon  the  hills  are  crowned  things 
With  stars  abundant  in  their  hair; 

Of  dreaming  destinies  the  kings; 
Mysterious,  they  beckon  there. 

And  I  through  lives  successive  go 

Unto  those  sovereign  forms  that  bend 

Upon  the  heights  I  fain  would  know. 
Beyond  the  road  my  feet  would  wend. 


THOMAS  WALSH 

57.  The  Baby  Moon 

"TTTISEST  of  the  story-tellers, 
W        All  in  furs  and  feathers  clad, 

Tell  us  little  wigwam-dwellers 
Why  the  moon  is  always  sad." 

"Listen,  tiny  chief  and  maiden, 

'Tis  an  old  Algonquin  tale; 
Once  when  pumpkin  fields  were  laden 

With  the  yellow  harvest  trail, 
By  the  fire  the  sachems  waited 

For  the  idle  little  scamp 
Melgasoway  who,  belated, 

Brought  no  pumpkin  for  the  camp: 

41 


THOMAS  WALSH 

All  because  a  hare  before  him 

Darted  past  the  setting  sun, 
And  he  chased  it  until  o'er  him 

Fell  the  night  and  nought  was  done. 
Now  of  old  there  was  another 

Moon,  a  baby  one,  that  rose 
Always  following  its  mother 

Where  by  Milky  Ways  she  goes. 
Through  the  leaves  he  peeped  and  thought  it 

Just  the  pumpkin  for  a  pie. 
And  his  bow  and  arrow  brought  it 

Tumbling  down  from  out  the  sky. 
Then  it  splashed  into  the  thicket — 

Just  a  dead  and  blackened  pile — 
Was  there  ever  boy  so  wicked ! — 

Now  the  moon  no  more  will  smile." 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
58.  At  Shottery 

ON  such  a  day  of  quiet  rain, 
When  all  the  air  was  gray  and  sweet 
With  unseen  flowers,  and  Spring's  dear  pain 
Of  longing  in  her  pulses  beat. 

She  may  have  stood  with  arms  outspread 
Amid  the  box-trees  dripping  spice. 
And  listened  for  his  coming  tread 
As  for  the  harps  of  paradise. 

We  sigh  for  him,  whom  God's  red  spur 
Drove  up  the  hallowed  heights  of  tears — 
But  in  the  valley,  what  of  her. 
And  her  long,  aching,  outgrown  years? 

42 


EDITH   THOMPSON 
59.  An  Inscription  on  a  Door 

AS  the  gj^psy  carts  were  following  a  blown  and  driz- 
zled  road, 
They  came  to  a  house  where  the  supper  fire  glowed; 
But  they  found  on  its  closed  door  these  words  of  bitter 

bode: 
"Smile,  sun;  sing,  wind;  dance,  rain,  you'll  not  get  in; 
Smile,  sing,  and  dance,  gypsy,  neither  shall  you  nor  sin." 

"Ah,  but  when  ye  shut  the  sun  out. 

What  did  ye  shut  out  too? 

Day-dawn,  and  nightfall  in  mingled  fire  and  blue. 

Color's  dear  mystery  of  seven-tinted  hue. 

And  when  ye  drove  the  wind  away. 

What  failed  ye  as  it  flew? 

Voices,  and  callings,  and  tunings  fit  to  woo 

Music's  best  melody  from  the  octaves  gods  first  blew. 

And  when  ye  turned  the  rain  about. 

What  did  ye  turn  from  you? 

The  silver-sandaled  joyance  of  the  tender  flowery  crew, 

Motion's  own  magic,  and  measured  heart-beat's  clue. 

But  when  ye  said  us  Romany, 

Perhaps  'twas  wisdom  due? 

For  ye  saved  your  gauds  and  gear,  and  jewels  new. 

Your  dull  light,  your  mute  air,  and  dry  dust — ooh ! 

And  we're  off  with  the  brown  leaf  to  the  tune  of  a  sough-  - 

ing  gale 
To  meet   the    rain    for   dancing   along    green    Wheeling 

Swale, 
Or  to  smile  to  the  sun  if  he  come  to  the  hill-top  trail. 
So,  smile,  sun;  sing,  wind;  dance,  rain,  with  us  your  kin. 
For  this  locked  door  has  kept  us  Romany  from  sin!" 

43 


Y' 


THOMAS  WALSH 

60.  The  Bells  of  Roncevaux 

''OU  can  hear  them  as  you  go, 

Whilst  the  mules  creep  higher,  higher, 
Where  the  torrents  overflow 
And  each  summit  lifts  a  spire — 
Through  the  vales  you  hear  them  soaring 
In  a  silvery  chant  adoring — 

Hark,  the  bells  of  Roncevaux! 

Lone  the  proud  old  abbey  stands, 

Dreaming  over  lost  Navarre; 
Stony  lie  the  folded  hands. 

Stony  gaze,  by  lamp  and  star, 
They  who  lit  the  world  of  story 
With  the  soul's  first  glint  of  glory — 

'Neath  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 

Knightly  comrades,  row  on  row 

In  their  mountain  shrine,  forgotten. 

By  their  feudal  towns  below, — 

There  they  lie — Fame's  first-begotten: 

Helms  collapsed  and  hauberk  rust. 

Dust  where  all  the  stars  are  dust — 
Round  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 

Through  our  hearts  their  vision  steal 
Out  of  ancient  midnights  telling 

How  they  woke  the   Christmas  peal. 

How  their  Easter  chimes  went  swelling 

Through  the  springtime  morns  of  old 

Ere  the  world  was  deaf  and  cold 
To  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 


RUTH  SHEPARD  PHELPS 

61.  Hollyhocks  in   Venice 

0  STRANGE  round  world !  with  all 
Of  Venice,  and  Japan, 
The  green  woods  that  were  Arden's 
And  those  New  England  gardens 
Wherein  my. life  began! 

Today  by  the  palace  wall 

Bright  hollyhocks  appear, 
(The  same  that  stand  like  wardens 
In  old  New  England  gardens) 

And  bring  what  far  things  near! 


REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 
62.  The  Seeker 

"T  TOO,  was  born  in  Arcady"; 
J|_  Yet  all  your  wise  men's  wit 

Can  never  lead  me  back,  and  I — 
Try  as  I  do,  and  try  and  try — 
Must  work  and  wait  and  live  and  die 
Remembering  and  regretting  it! 

I  see  your  whole  world  sick  to  be 
One  moment  like  my  Arcady — 
My  native,  lost,  loved  Arcady — 

In  these  last  days  of  Time; 
And,  oh,  before  your  dull  sun  drops 
Behind  your  prisoning  mountain-tops, 

I  want  to  shout: 

"Come  up  !     Come  out ! 
One  step  beyond  those  peaks  will  be 
The  flowered  fields  of  Arcady; 

Take  heart,  be  brave  and  climb ! 


REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

"Just  there  across  the  eternal  snows 
Eternal  summer  buds  and  blows; 
Could  we  a  little  farther  see, 

Could  we  but  hear — and,  oh,  we  can!— 
There  are  the  nymphs  upon  the  lea; 

There — ^hark ! — there  sound  the  Pipes  of 
Pan! 
One  brief  ascent,  and  even  we, 

The  slaves  of  Time, 
Shall  hear  and  see. 
Be  glad  and  free. — 

Oh,  climb!"   ... 

And  then — and  then  I  know  in  vain 

I  plead  with  you,  since  even  I 
Can  nevermore  return  again, 

Must  work  and  wait  and  live  and  die 
An  exile  out  of  Arcady 
With  nothing  left  but  memory 
Beneath  your  peaks  of  snow.   .    .    . 

"I,  too,  was  born  in  Arcady" — 
But  that  was  long  ago. 


AGNES  LEE 
63.  The  Drudge 

I  OUL,  what  hath  her  soul  to  say. 
At  the  twilight's  umber? 
"Solitude  and  workaday 
And  a  little  slumber." 


S' 


In  the  house,  yet  of  it  not. 
No   existence   sharing. 
Smile  for  wound  her  weary  lot, 
Paid  to  be  forbearing. 


46 


AGNES  LEE 

Bounded,  loveless,  growing  old, 
By  a  tile  and  rafter; 
Never  to  herself  to  hold 
Any  moonbeam's  laughter; 

Never  even  joy  to  know 
How  the  Scythe  befriending 
Calleth:  "Dream  and  work  I  mow 
To  a  level  ending. 

'*Ye  are  stubble — weed  and  grain, 
Nettle  and  sweet  clover, — 
All  that  ever  shall  remain, 
All  the  wide  world  over. 

"What  avail  within  the  Past 
Tarantelles,  andantes? 
Leveled  stalks  are  all  at  last. 
Martyrs  or  Bacchantes." 

JOSEPHINE  WHITNEY 
64.  Requital 

"TORD,  if  the  body  be 
I  J       Drudge  unto  purity. 

What  by  thy  great  decree 
Shall  the  soul  gain? 

"Lord,  if  the  thirsty  drain 
Goblets  of  bitter  rain. 
What  shall  they  thereby  gain 
Thirsting  the  more? 

"Lord,  whom  we  much  adore. 
What,  if  our  prayers  soar, 
Up  from  this  mortal  shore, 
Shall  we  attain?" 


JOSEPHINE   WHITNEY 

"Child,  if  thy  body  be 
Perfect  in  purity 
It  shall  provide  for  me 
Fittingest  fane. 

"Child,  if  thou  thirst  amain. 
Patient  beneath  thy  pain, 
Thou  shalt  not  drink  in  vain 
'  Water  I  pour. 

"Child,  if  thy  heart  implore 
Grace  from  the  hidden  store, 
Thou  shall  receive — and  more: 
Give,  as  from  me." 

WARWICK  JAMES  PRICE 
65.  Growth 

(1100) 

TRADITION,  garbed  in  samite,  gold-inwrought, 
Authority,  in  regal  pomp  arrayed, 
In  austere  majesty  ruled  human  thought, 
As  pious  monks,  low  kneeling,  blindly  prayed 
"Credo,  Domine!" 
(1500) 
New  worlds  were  rising  over  ocean's  brim. 
New  vistas  opening  out  before  men's  eyes. 
And  those  who  worshipped  raised  a  clearer  hymn. 
Which  answered  to  the  promise  of  the  skies — 
"S'pero,  Domine!" 
(1900) 
Unreasoning  faith,  unsatisfied  desire. 
Alike  have  yielded,  like  the  April  snow. 
And  we  today  led  surely  on  and  higher 
May,  grateful-hearted,  feel  at  last  we  know: 
"Video,  Dominer 

48 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

66.  Psyche 

THE  noonday  sun  is  dim, 
The  gold  o'  the  world  is  gray 
To  her  who  has  looked  on  him 
And  turned  away. 
The  beauty  is  hard  to  find 
In  the  meadows  of  Paradise 
For  her  who  has  left  behind 
His  longing  eyes. 
For  still  in  the  rising  sun 
She  sees  him  waiting  stand, 
And  the  breeze  when  day  is  done 
Is  his  beckoning  hand; 
The  stretch  of  the  ebb-cleared  beach 
Is  a  place  where  his  foot  may  fall, 
And  she  hears  the  sound  of  his  speech 
In  the  flood-tide's  call. 
Yet  onward  she  strives  to  go. 
Fearing  herself  forgot. 
Psyche,  return — and  know 
Love  changes  not. 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 
67.    .  The  Tow  Boat 

HEAD  down,  ears  back,  like  a  leashed  Great  Dane, 
The  tow  boat  breasts  the  seas, 
Far  out  in  the  reach  of  the  rolling  main 
Where  the  white  caps  fly  in  the  breeze. 
Astern  string  the  barges,  like  anchors  they  drag, 
Number  one  spitting  foam  as  she  rolls, 
While  bulky  and  silent  and  helpless  they  lag. 
Two  arid  three  with  their  burden  of  coals. 

49 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 

Scarce  a  sign  does  she  give  of  her  long,  long  fight 
With  the  wind  and  the  sea  and  the  tow, — 
Scarce  a  sign  of  the  steady,  invincible  might 
Of  her  great  engines  throbbing  below. 

Somewhere  there  are  mines  and  an  office,  no  doubt, 
And   a  typewriter  clicking  its  keys, 
Great  ledgers,  long  records,  trim  files  all  about — 
But  the  tow  boat  she  scorns  such  as  these. 

She  knows  not  her  servitude,  asks  not  for  fee; 
Her  pride  is  the  time  of  her  run. 
Her  joy  is  the  lift  of  the  limitless  seas. 
Her  peace  is  her  anchorage  won. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

68.  As  an  Old  Mercer 

AS  an  old  mercer  in  some  sleepy  town 
Jl^  Swings  wide  his  windows  new  day  after  day, 
Sets  all  his  wares  around  in  arch  array 
To  please  the  taste  of  passers  up  and  down, — 
His  hoard  of  handy  things  of  trite  renown. 
Of  sweets  and  spices  and  of  faint  perfumes, 
Of  silks  and  prints, — and  at  the  last  illumes 
His  tiny  panes  to  foil  the  evening's  frown; 
So  Nature  spreads  her  proffered  treasures:  such 
As  daily  dazzle  at  the  morning's  rise, — 
Fair  show  of  isle  and  ocean  merchandise. 

And  airy  offerings  filmy  to  the  touch; 

Then,  lest  we  like  not  these,  in  Dark's  bazaars 
She  nightly  tempts  us  with  her  store  of  stars. 

50 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

69.  Afterglow 

NO,  no,  signora,  I  am  not  too  old — 
I  still  can  swing  an  oar — and  you  are  light. 
Eighty — full  eighty  years — and  see,  how  strong! 
I  learned  to  row  in  Venice;  there  ten  years 
I  was  a  gondolier.     When  I  came  back, 
I  rowed  upon  this  lake.   .    .    .   You  know  at  first 
Only  the  little  wild  Cordevole 
Went  roaring  through  the  valley;  there  was  then 
No  lake,  signora,  only  villages. 

Tilled  fields  and  vineyards,  and  the  saw-mills  droned 
Loud  as  the  river — sixty  years  ago. 
The  water's  clear  today — look  down — ^you  see 
The  village  there  below  you?    Down — straight  down — 
The  house  that  stands  a  little  way  apart — 
That  was  my  house.    There  was  beside  the  door 
A  rose-bush  growing,  that  I  planted  there 
The  day  our  child  was  born,  and  right  beside 
We  marked  her  height  each  birthday,  and  we  laughed 
Because  she  could  not  overtake  the  rose. 
"But  some  day  she  will  have  to  stoop,"  we  said, 
"To  pluck  the  roses" — there  were  just  two  marks — 
Long,  long  ago  they  were  washed  out,  and  yet 
I  see  them  there  today  as  I  look  down. 
Shall  we  go  on? 

'Tis  sixty  years  ago. 
We  married  young,  signora — we  were  poor 
But  we  were  strong,  and — when  one  loves,  it  seems 
Youth  is  too  short  and  sweet  to  wait  apart 
Lentil  one  prospers.    There's  a  savour,  too. 
In  hard-won  bread  with  love  to  season  it — 
You  understand.    And  children  as  we  were. 
We  walked  upon  the  mountain-tops  of  joy. 
Look  how  Civetta  towers,  peak  on  peak, 

51 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Soft  in  its  rosy  pallor;  she  was  pale 

For  all  her  strength.    How  often  I  have  said 

Civetta  taught  her  cheeks  their  faint  sweet  glow. 

She  was  not  ruddy  like  the  other  girls. 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills," 

The  priest  would  say,  and  then,  **the  strength  of  tlieni 

Is  also  His."     It  seemed  to  us  we  built 

Our  nest  within  the  hollow  of  God's  hand 

There  in  the  valley,  for  about  us  rose 

The  hills  like  guardian  angels,  and  we  named 

The  child  Civetta,  for  the  mountain  seemed 

Strong  as  a  saint  to  us.    Yet  spite  of  that, 

'Twas  Piz  we  held  the  dearest,  like  a  hoar 

Old  kindly  giant,  brooding  o'er  the  pass 

To  keep  out  evil  comers.    Ah,  those  days ! 

You  would  not  think,  seeing  that  silent  house 

Below  the  water,  what  it  used  to  be. 

There  never  was  a  throat  so  full  of  music 

As  my  Costanza's — always  I  could  hear 

A  snatch  of  song  that  told  me  where  she  was. 

Her  heart  was  full  of  joy — how  could  it  help 

But  bubble  into  melody?     And  when 

She  slept,  it  seemed  the  nightingale  sang  on 

The  night  through,  in  her  stead.    The  little  one 

Was  like  her  mother.    We  had  made  two  marks 

Beside  the  rose-bush  .    .    .   sixty  years  ago.   .    .    . 

We  had  worked  hard,  signora,  and  had  saved 

To  buy  a  yoke  of  oxen ;  so  I  went 

Down  to  Belluno,  for  the  market-day. 

The  two  went  with  me  to  the  valley's  mouth. 

For  in  a  village  at  the  foot  of  Piz 

Costanza's  cousin  lived,  and  there  she  said 

That  they  would  stay  the  night,  the  earlier 

To  greet  me  on  the  morrow,  and  we  all 

Could  journey  home  together.     So  we  planned 

52 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Walking  together  toward  the  valley's  mouth, 
Civetta  on  my  shoulder;  and  I  asked 
If  I  should  buy  a  kerchief  for  my  dear, 
But  she  said  no — I  was  to  buy  instead 
Some  trinket  for  the  child.     That  was  her  way. 
And  then,  because  it  wrung  my  heart  to  go, 
I  lifted  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills 
And  saw  the  forest-bearded  face  of  Piz 
Bending  as  if  he  blessed  us,  and  my  heart 
Was  glad  as  at  a  sign  from  heaven.     I  said: 
**May  God  and  Piz  watch  over  you."    And  so — 
And  so  I  left  them  at  the  valley's  mouth. 
She  took  the  faded  kerchief  from  her  head, 
Waving  it  as  I  went,  and  I  could  see 
The  sunlight  on  her  hair.    When  I  no  more 
Could  see  her  face,  her  hair  was  shining  still. 

And  the  next  day  I  bought  my  oxen  there. 

In  the  Belluno  market, — comely  beasts 

With  gentle  eyes,  and  on  their  horns  I  bound 

Garlands  of  poppies.     She  will  clap  her  hands, 

I  thought,  and  kiss  them  'twixt  the  gentle  eyes, 

And  hold  Civetta  up  to  fondle  them. 

And  since  she  had  forbidden  me  to  buy 

A  kerchief  for  her  head,  I  bought  instead 

A  silver  pin  to  wear  on  holy-days. 

So  light  of  heart  I  was  that  all  the  way 

I  laughed  and  sang  aloud,  and  all  the  way 

I  lifted  up  my  face  unto  the  hills 

That  made  me  glad.     But  when  at  last  I  came 

In  sight  of  home — I  could  not  see  my  home, 

For  Piz  was  gone,  and  that  which  had  been  Piz 

Crammed  all  the  valley's  entrance,  and  below 

Three  villages  were  buried.    They  were  there.   .    .    . 

A  neighbor  told  me  all  there  was  to  tell — 

53 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Little  enough.     A  sudden  rending  crasli, 

And  all  was  done.    I  stood  and  could  not  speak. 

The  knowledge  fell  upon  me  as  the  hill 

Fell  upon  them.     He  wept  who  told  it  me. 

I  did  not  weep — I  laughed,  remembering 

How  I  commended  them  to  God  and  Piz, 

And  thus  it  was  they  had  kept  faith  with  me ! 

And  then  he  bade  me  take  my  goods  and  go 

Up  to  a  higher  village,  for  the  fall 

Had  dammed  Cordevole,  and  silently 

The  creeping  waters  rose  and  rose  and  rose. 

And  then  I  laughed  again.    What  use  to  me 

Were  house  or  goods?    I  gave  my  goods  to  him, 

The  pair  of  oxen  and  the  silver  pin; 

He  had  a  wife — a  kindly  soul  who  nursed 

Costanza  in  her  travail.    So  I  turned 

Nor  looked  again  upon  my  empty  house; 

Turned  and  went  back  the  way  that  I  had  come.  . 

But  as  I  went,  I  did  not  lift  my  face. 

I  hoped  some  mountain  kindlier  than  the  rest 

W^ould  fall  upon  me,  too — but  none  would  fall — 

And  all  the  grass  was  full  of  little  flowers. 

So  I  went  down  to  Venice — to  the  sea; 

No  mountains  there. 

Signora!    Pardon  me — 
I  had  not  thought  my  tale  would  make  you  weep. 
You  are  too  kind — all  this  was  long  ago — 
In  sixty  years  there's  time  for  tears  to  dry. 
And  yet  it  leaves  a  sear;  see,  even  now 
There's  only  bareness   .    .    .  yonder.    Older  still, 
The  naked  wilderness  that  seams  Peron — 
Not  all  the  summers  of  five  centuries 
Have  made  it  green  again. 

I  used  to  think 
That  when  I  came  to  die,  and  stood  at  last 

54 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Right  face  to  face  with  God,  I  would  not  wait 
For  Him  to  judge  me — 'twas  for  me  to  judge. 
I  would  speak  out:   "Why  did  you  do  this  thing? 
I  trusted  You.    Why  did  You  do  this  thing, 
You  and  the  mountains,  if  indeed  the  strength 
Of  them  is  Yours?"     But  since  I  did  not  die, 
I  said,  "I  will  have  naught  of  them  henceforth, 
God  and  the  mountains.    They  have  smitten  me 
Unjustly,  cowardly.     I  trusted  them. 
And  then  they  struck  a  woman  and  a  child 
Suddenly  in  the   darkness.     Cowardly!" 
So  for  ten  years  I  never  went  to  mass 
Nor  looked  upon  the  hills.     But  I  would  stand 
Often  before  the  crucifix  and  think, 
"Oh,  Brother  Signor  Jesu,  you  have  known 
How  He  betrays  a  trust.    You  trusted  too, 
And  He  forsook  you  in  your  agony." 
I  was  so  young,  signora — I  had  known 
Only  our  people,  simple,  kindly,  good; 
But  in  the  city  I  saw  other  things — 
Greed,  hatred  and  uncleanness — and  I  saw 
The  sea  .    .    .   signora,  do  you  know  the  sea? 
As  year  by  year  I  saw  the  ships  come  in, 
Some  prosperous  and  gay  with  little  flags. 
And  some  all  battered,  scarce  escaped  alive. 
And — saw  the  women  watch  for  other  ships 
That  never  came — I  thought,  "Here  is  a  thing 
Cruel  as  God  and  treacherous  as  the  hills. 
That  favors  or  destroys  just  for  a  whim." 
Until  one  day,  musing  as  I  was  wont 
Before  the  crucifix,  it  came  to  me: 
"Perchance  Costanza,  as  the  mountain  fell, 
Cried  out  on  me — and  I  was  far  away. 
Had  I  been  near,  I  might  have  died  with  her, 
But  saved  her — no.     It  may  be  as  she  died 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

She,  too,  cried  out,  'Thou  hast  forsaken  me !' 
Was  God  as  powerless  as  I?    Did  He 
Suffer  like  me?" 

I  took  that  afternoon 
No  passengers;  I  rowed  out  all  alone 
And  moored  my  boat,  and  went  where  I  could  look 
Straight  out  to  sea;  and  all  night  long  I  lay 
Upon  the  sands,  and  tried  to  think  it  clear. 
And  when  the  morning  broke,  I  saw  the  sea 
Shining  before  me,  and  I  did  not  fear 
Nor  hate  it,  for  at  last  I  understood 
There  was  in  it  no  malice  and  no  love; 
Indifferent,  it  fulfilled  its  destiny, 
And  if  its  tempests  rent  the  waves  alone 
Or  beat  a  ship  to  driftwood,  it  nor  knew 
Nor  cared.     If  men  must  needs  go  forth  on  it, 
Theirs  be  the  peril,  theirs  the  profit,  too. 
The  lives  of  men  are  nothing  to  the  sea, 
The  lives  of  men  are  nothing  to  the  hills. 
Their  strength  is  not  of  God,  but  all  their  own. 
Ten  years  it  was  since  I  had  said  a  prayer, 
But  there,  beside  the  sea,  in  the  pale  dawn — 
'Twas  a  gray  dawn  and  cold — I  stood  and  prayed. 
'*Lord  God,"  I  said,  "forgive  me  for  my  hate. 
You  who  have  suffered,  You  can  understand 
And  know  the  cry  of  pain.     You  saw  Your  son 
Slain  by  a  thing  pitiless  as  the  sea. 
Blind  as  the  hills,  and  You  could  give  no  help. 
Lord  God,  for  my  own  grief  I  had  no  tears. 
But  for  Your  grief,  and  mine,  and  all  the  world's." 
So  I  left  Venice,  and  went  back  again. 
There  in  Belluno,  all  men  spoke  to  me 
Kindly,  a  little  hushed,  as  if  afraid; 
They  thought  I  had  been  mad.    As  I  went  back 
I  neither  spoke  nor  sang,  but  walked  erect, 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Head  up,  and  looked  the  mountains  in  the  face. 

I  could  not  hate  them  any  more,  you  see — 

They  knew  not  what  they  did.     I  understood 

How  Cristo  could  forgive  upon  the  cross. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  walked,  my  hand  in  God's, 

And  sometimes  as  we  went,  I  thought  He  wept 

And  that  I  whispered,  "Lord,  be  comforted; 

This  thing  must  be."     And  so  I  came  again 

Into  the  valley.     All  was  as  you  see. 

Again  the  grass  was  full  of  little  flowers. 

For  it  was  spring;  the  water  was  not  clear 

But  green   and  turbid   from  the  melting  snows. 

And  I  saw  nothing.     I  was  glad  of  that; 

One  learns  to  bear  a  little  at  a  time. 

The  folk  had  taken  up  their  life  again, 

As  one  must  do,  and  all  about  the  lake 

I  saw  again  the  vineyards  and  tilled  fields 

And  heard  the  saw-mills  drone.     My  neighbor  came 

And  made  me  free  of  all  his  goods;  he  said 

My  yoke  of  oxen  so  had  prospered  him 

That  he  could  halve  his  farm  with  me.     His  wife 

Was  "with  him,  and  I  saw  the  silver  pin 

Set  in  her  hair.     She  marked  my  eyes  on  it 

And  made  to  take  it  out — down  her  kind  face 

The  tears  were  running — but  I  stayed  her  hand. 

It  did  not  give  me  pain  to  see  it  there. 

I  made  my  home  with  them,  but  would  not  take 

Aught  of  his  land.     What  did  I  want  of  land? 

I  had  forgotten  how  to  hold  a  plow. 

I  built  myself  a  boat,  and  back  and  forth 

I  rowed  upon  the  lake,  ferrying  folk 

And  burdens,  as  they  came  and  called  to  me. 

And  slowly,  day  by  day,  the  water  cleared ; 

First  I  could  see  the  tree-tops,  then  the  tops 

Of  chimneys   .    .    .   and  at  last  I  saw  the  house.   .    .    . 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

I  thought  the  rose-bush  still  was  by  the  door 
Turned  to  a  water-weed.     Only  two  marks — 
It  may  be  there  are  roses  where  she  is. 
And  in  the  winter  when  I  could  not  row 
I  joined  the  timberers  on  the  mountain-side. 
They  marveled  at  me,  for  I  had  no  fear. 
What  should  I  fear?    And  often  in  the  snow 
Men  came  to  deadly  hurt,  and  those  who  wept 
Would  turn  to  me,  knowing  I  understood. 
Then  would  I  say  to  them,  "Be  comforted. 
This  thing  must  be — "  as  I  had  said  to  God. 
But  though  I  prayed,  I  could  not  go  to  mass 
And  hear  the  priest,  who  did  not  understand. 
Mock  at  Him,  calling  Him  all  powerful. 
Master  of  all  the  world — who  could  not  save 
His  son,  nor  aught  that  any  man  held  dear. 

My  neighbor's  youngest  child  I  loved  the  best; 

Her  eyes  were  like  Civetta's,  and  she  sang 

Always  about  her  play,  and  as  she  grew. 

About  her  work.    There  was  a  lad  she  loved ; 

An  honest  lad — we  timbered  on  the  hills 

Together  in  the  winter,  and  one  learns 

To  read  a  man,  in  that  white  loneliness. 

And  on  a  day,  a  dead  bough  sharp  with  ice 

Fell  on  his  head;  a  little  while  it  seemed 

That  he  was  mad,  and  then  he  fell  asleep 

And  breathed,  but  did  not  waken.    Through  the  snow 

I  bore  him  to  the  village  in  my  arms. 

And  when  I  saw  my  darling  in  the  door 

I  strove  to  say  to  her,  "Be  comforted. 

This  thing  must  be — "    But  I  could  only  say 

"My  child,  my  child !"    At  last  there  came  a  night 

It  seemed  that  he  must  die;  her  hand  in  mine 

We  sat  beside  him,  and  the  clock  ticked  loud 

58 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Upon  the  wall — the  minutes  seemed  to  trip 

Upon  each  others*  heels,  so  fast  they  ran. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  came  to  me, 

But  all  at  once  I  spoke:  "This  is  not  all. 

The  grief  and  dumb  endurance.     There  is  more — 

There  is  a  hidden  meaning  in  it  all, 

And  what  for  us  is  loneliness  and  tears 

Shall  blossom  in  the  hearts  of  the  unborn 

To  beauty,  for  we  suffer  not  in  vain 

Although  we  cannot  see  the  end,  not  now 

Nor  ever,  with  these  eyes.    Since  God  is  love, 

Although  His  ways  be  strange,  they  all  lead  home. 

The  patient  wrestling  of  our  shaken  hearts, 

The  pitiless  sea,  the  cruel  strength  of  these 

The  hills — are  His.     His  will  for  earth  be  done." 

And  she  beside  me,  slipping  to  her  knees. 

Laid  her  hot  forehead  on  my  hands  and  said, 

**His  will  for  earth  be  done" — but  all  at  once 

He  stirred — and  she  crept  near,  and  raised  herself 

And  looked  into  his  face — and  I  could  see 

His  opening  eyes,  and  hear  a  whisper,  faint 

As  falling  embers,  but  in  his  own  voice — 

"Costanza.  ..."    'Twas  her  name.     So  I  went  out 

Under  the  stars  and  left  those  two  alone. 

See,  'tis  their  chimney  smoking;  and  that  house 
With  all  the  roses  and  the  little  ones 
About  the  door,  is  his — their  eldest  boy's — 
The  boy  they  named  for  me.     So  many  homes 
I  can  call  mine ! 

Here  is  the  shore  at  last; 
Just  one  more  stroke. 
I  have  not  wearied  you? 


CHARLES  T.  RYDER 

70.  I  That  Have  Lived 

I  THAT  have  lived  and  loved  life  well 
Am  scattered  now  through  earth  and  air, 
And  cannot  with  clear  words  declare 
What  you  would  know  and  I  could  tell; 

Yet  do  I  speak  with  voices  still. 

Would  you  but  hear  and  understand 
The  burthened  speech  of  sea  and  land. 

The  myriad  tongues  of  field  and  hill. 

Such  speech  I  early  knew,  and  said, 

"Through  death  and  change,  life  never  ends; 
I  yet  may  sojourn  among  friends": 

And  hopefully  I  joined  the  dead. 


AGNES  LEE 

71.  Two  Houses 

HOUSE  of  the  past,  house  of  the  sunken  stair, 
In  somnolence  of  long  untrodden  grass! 
Tragedy,  pleasure,  sin,  have  crossed  thy  door, 
Thy  crumbling  gables  are  no  longer  fair. 
And  all  the  sigh  of  all  the  heaven  may  pass 
Along  thy  desert  floor. 

And  thou,  the  newly  builded,  firmly  set. 
Wide-hailed,  with  gleaming  porch  and  peristyle, 
And  windows  clear  to  catch  the  sunlight's  dole ! 
What  shalt  thou  say,  O  thou  with  no  regret, 
Proud  in  thy  vigor,  but,  alas  the  while, 
Still  waiting  for  thy  soul! 


E.  NESBIT 

72.  Experience 

DID  you  deceive  me?    Did  I  trust 
A  heart  of  fire  to  a  heart  of  dust? 
What  matter?  since  once  the  world  was  fair, 
And  you  gave  me  the  rose  of  the  world  to  wear. 

That  was  the  time  to  live  for !    Flowers, 
Sunshine  and  starshine  and  magic  hours, 
Summer  about  me.  Heaven  above, 
And  all  seemed  immortal,  even  Love. 

The  mortal  rose  of  your  love  was  worth 

The  pains  of  death  and  the  pains  of  birth; 

And   the  thorns   may   be   sharper  than   death,   who 

knows  ? 
That  crowd  around  the  stem  of  a  deathless  rose. 


HENRY  ADAMS  BELLOWS 

73.  Storm  at  Sea 

NIGHT,  hot  and  breathless;  sails  that  flap,  and 
spars 
Creaking  like  souls  in  an  uneasy  sleep; 
The  weary  writhings  of  the  windless  deep; 
Above,  the  dying  fires  of  the  stars. 
Which  one  by  one  go  out  behind  the  pall 
Slow  rising  from  the  shadowy  northern  wall. 

A  sudden  gust,  the  snap  of  ropes  pulled  tight. 
The  ship's  quick  heeling  to  the  northern  blast, 
A  lull, — then  other  gusts  that  follow  fast. 
And  we  go  driving  madly  through  the  night, 
Blackness  above,  black  water  at  the  rail, 
Blackness  ahead,  and  on  our  heels  the  gale. 

61 


HENRY  ADAMS  BELLOWS 

No  light  except  the  binnacle's  white  stare, 
No  human  voice,  nought  but  the  steady  crash 
Of  breaking  seas,  that  wind-flung  come  to  lash 
The  steersman's  face;  and  howling  everywhere, 
Through  quivering  shrouds,  around  the  topmasts 

stark, 
The  wind  goes  hurtling  through  the  echoing  dark. 

The  long-enduring  hours  go  their  way 

In  a  monotony  of  ceaseless  motion. 

Till  a  sad  grayness  shows  the  whirling  ocean 

Writhing  beneath  the  coming  of  the  day; 

And  in  each  other's  faces  gaunt  and  white 

Silent  we  read  the  fury  of  the  night. 


RICHARD  WARNER  BORST 

74.  Not  All  the  Way 

WITH  eyes  that  time  and  tears  have  smitten 
blind, 
I  pause  upon  my  way  and  look  behind; 
And  with  an  inner  sight  I  seek  once  more 
The  face  of  her  who  at  the  break  of  day 
Set  out  with  me,  but  came  not  all  the  way. 
And  then, — half  down  a  shadowy  lane  she  stands. 
Among  the  greenery  and  flowers  of  yore; 
A  red  rose,  plucked  long  stemmed,  is  in  her  hands, 
And  guilelessly  she  holds  the  scarlet  flower, 
Pressing  its  perfumed  petals  to  her  lips, 
While  all  about  her  falls  a  mottled  shower 
Of  sunlight  through  the  quivering  leaves,  that  slips 
Into  her  shining  hair  and  turns  each  twist 
And  plait  to  gold ;  while  from  her  rounded  wrist 

62 


RICHARD  WARNER  BORST 

Her  bonnet  dangles  on  its  loose-tied  strings. 
Ah,  bent  am  I,  and  old  and  blind  and  gray, — 
More  blithe  is  she  than  any  bird  that  sings! 
My  well  beloved,  who  at  break  of  day. 
Set  out  with  me, — but  came  not  all  the  way. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

75.  Queen  Mary  at  Fotheringay 

WHAT  have  I  gained  who  gave  so  much? 
A  crown  too  slippery  for  my  clutch — 
A  body  misused  and  a  heart  abused. 
What  have  I  gained  for  all  I  spent? 
Many  a  dead  man's  curse  to  rue, 
Many  a  lover  and  not  one  true. 
Many  a  bribe,  though  not  my  due — 
Yet  I  have  lived,  and  am  content. 

Say  that  I  squandered  life — confessed. 
Had  I  been  miser  of  my  best. 
Today  I  would  be  in  penury 
Even  as  now,  a  fool  betrayed. 
The  crown  of  stars  and  the  nether  flame 
Both  have  I  proved  in  the  teeth  of  blame. 
Have  not  the  years  in  pride  and  shame 
Given  the  worth  of  all  I  paid? 

The  course  I  chose  was  the  course  I  kept ; 
In  the  face  of  doom  like  a  flame  I  leapt. 
Bitter  and  sweet  have  I  known  complete — 
One  adventure  is  left  to  try. 
Life  I  have  finished,  mire  to  throne — 
Here  at  life's  end  I  stand  alone. 
Headsman,  warder  of  worlds  unknown, 
Show  me  now  what  it  means  to  die ! 

63 


LEWIS  WORTHINGTON  SMITH 
76.  Whither  Away 

THIS  is  the  road  that  you  all  must  take. 
Whither  away  so  far? 
Seek  what  you  will,  and  your  heart  shall  ache, 
A  glow-worm  or  a  star. 
After  it  all  but  a  swirling  wake 
Across  the  harbor  bar. 

These  are  the  things  that  you  all  have  planned, 

Whether  to  make  or  mar, 
Love  and  the  touch  of  a  kindred  hand, 

Fame  and  the  conqueror's  car. 
After  it  all  but  your  boat  unmanned 

Across  the  harbor  bar. 

This  is  the  thing  that  you  all  must  know. 

Travel  you  near  or  far; 
Yours  are  the  moments  before  they  go. 

Which  shall  be,  not  which  are. 
After  it  all  but  the  lights  burnt  low 

Across  the  harbor  bar. 


ETHEL  BARSTOW  HOWARD 

77.  The  Fairy  Tree 

THE  birch  tree  throws  a  scarf  of  green 
Around  her  silver  white. 
Woven  of  little  polished  leaves 
All  delicate  and  bright, 
It  sways  with  every  passing  air 
And  shimmers  in  the  light. 
64 


ETHEL  BARSTOW  HOWARD 

Oh,  like  a  Dryad  nymph  she  stands 
The  birch  tree,  silver  white! 
And  all  day  long  that  flowing  veil 
Trembles   for  my  delight. 
She  stirs  it  as  she  moves  in  it 
As  a  young  maiden  might. 

And  is  she  then  a  tree  at  all 
My  birch,  all  silver  white? 
Clothed  in  a  robe  of  little  leaves, 
Alive  with  wind  and  light. 
And  standing  by  the  fairy  ring. 
With  queenly  slender  height? 

In  truth  I  think  she  is  a  fay 

The  birch  tree,  silver  white. 

Bound  by  a  spell  the  long  bright  day 

But  free  again  at  night, 

And  she  knows  all  the  woodland  ways 

Under  the  gray  moonlight. 

JOYCE  KILMER 

78.  Folly 

WHAT  distant  mountains  thrill  and  glow 
Beneath  our  Lady  Folly's  tread? 
Why  has  she  left  us,  wise  and  woe, 
Shrewd,  practical,  uncomforted? 
We  cannot  love  or  dream  or  sing. 

We  are  too  cynical  to  pray. 
There  is  no  joy  in  anything 

Since  Lady  Folly  went  away. 

Many  a  knight  and  gentle  maid. 

Whose  glory  shines  from  years  gone  by. 

Through  ignorance  was  unafraid 
And  as  a  fool  knew  how  to  die. 

65 


JOYCE  KILMER 

Saint  Folly  rode  beside  Jehanne 

And  broke  the  ranks  of  Hell  with  her, 

And  Folly's  smile  shone  brightly  on 
Christ's  plaything,  Brother  Juniper. 

Our  minds  are  troubled  and  defiled 

By  study  in  a  weary  school. 
Oh  for  the  folly  of  the  child ! 

The  ready  courage  of  the  fool ! 
Lord,  crush  our  knowledge  utterly 

And  make  us  humble,  simple  men; 
And  cleansed  of  wisdom,  let  us  see 

Our  Lady  Folly's  face  again. 


HENRY  ADAMS  BELLOWS 

79.  Tarpaulin  Cove 

THE  wind  has  fallen  with  the  sun,  and  now 
Only  its  faintest  murmur  moves  the  air; 
The  tiny  ripples  whisper  at  the  bow 
So  quietly  we  scarce  can  hear  them  there. 

The  silent  sea  breathes  slowly  in  its  sleep; 
Only  the  stars  are  waking,  and  they  lie 
Immeasurably  distant  in  the  deep 
Unfathomable  silence  of  the  sky. 

And  so  we  creep  to  harbor,  very  still 
Amid  the  sleeping  stillness  of  the  world, 
To  where  the  schooners  lie  beneath  the  hill. 
Swaying  in  peace,  with  heavy  mainsails  furled. 

We  glide  among  them  like  a  new-come  ghost. 
Shatter  the  stillness  with  our  anchor-chain, 
Set  riding-lights  like  sentries  at  their  post. 
And  sleep  until  the  morning  comes  again. 

66 


BADGER  CLARK 
80.  On  the  Drive 

OH,  days  whoop  by  with  swingin'  lope 
And  days  slip  by  a-sleepin'. 
And  days  must  drag,  with  lazy  rope. 
Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 
Heeya-a!  you  cattle,  drift  away! 
Heeyow!  the  slow  hoofs  sift  away 
And  sunny  dust-clouds  lift  away, 
Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 

My  pard  may  sing  of  sighin*  love 

And  I  of  roarin'  battle. 
But  all  the  time  we  sweat  and  shove 

And  follow  up  the  cattle. 
Heeya-a!  the  bawlin'  crowd  of  you! 
Heeyow !  the  draggin'  cloud  of  you ! 
We're  glad  and  gay  and  proud  of  you, 

We  men  that  follow  cattle ! 

But  all  the  world's  a  movin'  herd 
Where  men  drift  on  together, 
And  some  may  spur  and  some  are  spurred, 

But  most  are  horns  and  leather! 
Heeya-a!  the  rider  sings  along, 
Heeyow!  the  reined  hawse  swings  along 
And  drifts  and  drags  and  flings  along 
The  mob  of  horns  and  leather. 

The  outlaws   fight  to  break  away; 
The  weak  and  lame  are  crawlin'. 
But  only  dead  ones  quit  the  play, 

The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 

Heeya-a!  it's  grief  and  strife  to  us; 

Heeyow !  it's  child  and  wife  to  us ; 

By  leap  or  limp,  it's  life  to  us ! 

.  The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 

67 


BADGER  CLARK 

Some  dream  ahead  to  pastures  green, 
Some  stare  ahead  to  slaughter, 

But,  anyway,  night  drops  between 
And  brings  us  rest  and  water. 

Heeya-a !  you  cattle,  drift  away ! 

Heeyow!  the  dust-clouds  lift  away; 

The  glarin'  miles  will  shift  away 
And  leave  us  rest  and  water. 


M.  E.  BUHLER 

81.  As  in  the  Beginning 

SAID  the  Mother  of  all  Living  to  the  Mother  of  the 
Dead, 
"Thy  place  is  mine,  O  Lilith,  and  thou  and  thine  are 
fled! 
Thy  salt,   salt  tears  may  dew  the   sea  until  thine   eyes 

are  dim. 
But  Adam's  God  hath  made  in  me  a  helpmeet  unto  him. 
Thy  Children  of  the  Air  and  Mist  are  buried  in  the  Sea, 
But  mine  shall  walk  the  living  Earth  and  mock  at  thine 
and  thee!" 


Said  Adam's  love  to  Adam's  wife,  "I  come  again,  O  Eve ! 
Though  buried  in  the  deathless  deeps,  lo,  I  and  mine  may 

grieve ! 
For  he  was  mine  and  I  was  his  ere  thou  to  him  wast  wed, 
And  mine  and  his  shall  reign  again  when  the  Sea  gives 

up   its   Dead!" 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

82.  In  Cool,  Green  Haunts 

A  SWEET,  deep  sense  of  mystery  filled  the  wood. 
A  star,  like  that  which  woke  o'er  Bethlehem, 
Shone  on  the  still  pool's  brow  for  diadem — 
The  first  to  fall  of  summer's  multitude ! 
In  cool,  green  haunts,  where,  haply,  Robin  Hood 
Ranged  royally,  of  old,  with  all  his  train, 
A  hushed  expectance,  such  as  augurs  rain. 
Enthralled  me  and  possessed  me  where  I  stood. 

Then  came  the  wind,  with  low  word  as  he  went; 
The  quick  wren,  swift  repeating  what  he  said; 
A  chattering  chipmunk  lured  me  on  and  led 

Where  scented  brakes  'neath  some  wee  burden  bent: — 
One  look — 'twas  this  those  wild  things  yearned  to  say: 
"A  little  brown-eyed  fawn  was  born  today!" 

JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

83.  In  the  Cornfield 

S  I  was  hoeing  a  hill  of  corn. 

Thinking  of  nought  but  weeds  and  sand, 
Suddenly  on  my  arm  I  felt 
The  touch  of  a  ghostly  hand. 

I  looked  not  up,  but  I  saw  it  all. 

How  the  sun  flashed  hot  through  the  bound- 
less blue. 
The  firm  earth  rocked  beneath  my  feet 

As  he  followed  his  orbit  through. 

And  I  laughed  out  loud  in  the  blazing  sun 

To  think  that  ever  I  was  born 
To  feel  that  hand  upon  my  arm 

And  work   among  the   corn ! 

69 


A^ 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 


0" 


84.  Lie-Awake  Songs 

I 
^  FTEN  when  awake  I  lie 
Listening  to  the  clock  go  round 
Hours  and  hours,  I  wonder  why 
My  brother  sleeps  so  sound. 

II 

The  city  is  so  kind  to  me; 

It  stays  awake  for  company — 

It  never  sleeps  at  all. 

Its  lamps  are  always  burning  bright 

From  when  my  mother  says  goodnight 

Until  the  milkmen  call. 

The  street  is  always  full  of  wheels, 
Horse-carriages  and  aut'mobiles— 
The  whole  night  long  they  pass, 
Carrying  home  to  marble  halls 
Princesses  that  have  been  to  balls 
In  little  shoes  of  glass. 

Then  there's  the  dog  across  the  way — 
He  must  be  dreaming  of  the  day 
Or  barking  at  a  kitty — 
And  people  talking  as  they  go.   .    .    . 
I  often  wonder,  do  they  know 
That  I'm  awake  and  like  them  so. 
Or  is  it  just — the  city? 

Ill 

God  has  a  house  three  streets  away, 
And  every  Sunday,  rain  or  shine. 
My  nurse  goes  there  her  prayers  to  say. 
She  told  me  of  the  candles  fine 
That  burning  all  night  long  they  keep 
Because  God  never  goes  to  sleep. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

And  there's  a  steeple  full  of  bells — 
All  through  the  dark  the  time  it  tells. 
I  often  hear  it  in  the  night 
And  think  about  those  candles  bright. 
I  wonder  if  God  stays  awake 
For  kindness,  like  the  furnace  man 
Who  comes  before  it's  day,  to  make 
Our  house  as  pleasant  as  he  can. 
I  like  to  watch  the  sky  grow  blue. 
And  think  perhaps  the  whole  world  through 
Everyone's  sleeping  but  us  three, 
God  and  the  furnace  man  and  me. 
IV 
Out  in  the  street  there  is  a  light 
That  through  my  window  throws  at  night 
The  shadow  of  a  pine-tree  on  the  wall. 
And  while  I  see  it  nod  and  play 
And  dance  in  such  a  jolly  way, 
It  isn't  hard  to  lie  awake  at  all. 

I  wish  there  were  a  friendly  tree 
To  keep  the  children  company 
That  in  the  city  have  to  lie  awake. 
I  think  their  mothers  ought  to  fix 
Window-box  vines  that  climb  on  sticks — 
What  pleasant  little  shadows  they  would  make! 
V 

Raining,  raining, 

All  night  long. 

Sometimes  loud,  sometimes  soft, 

Just  like  a  song. 

There'll  be  rivers  in  the  gutters 
And  lakes  along  the  street. 
It  will  make  our  lazy  kitty 
Wash  his  dirtv  little  feet. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

The  roses  will  wear  diamonds 
Like  kings  and  queens  at  court — 
But  the  pansies  all  get  muddy 
Because  they  are  so  short. 

I'll  sail  my  boat  tomorrow 

In  wonderful  new  places, 

But  first  I'll  take  my  watering-pot 

And  wash  the  pansies'  faces. 

VI 

The  apples  dropping  from  the  tree 
Make  such  a  heavy  bump  at  night, 
I  always  am  surprised  to  see 
They  are  so  little,  when  it's  light. 

And  all  the  dark  just  sings  and  sings 
So  loud,  I  cannot  think  at  all 
How  frogs  and  crickets  and  such  things 
That  make  the  noise,  can  be  so  small. 

And  my  own  room  seems  bigger,  too — 
Corners  so  dark  and  far  away.   .    .    . 
I  wonder  if  things  really  do 
Grow  up  at  night  and  shrink  by  day? 

For  I  dream  sometimes — just  as  clear ! 
I'm  bigger  than  the  biggest  men. 
Then  Mother  says,  ^''Wake  up,  my  dear — 
And  I'm  a  little  boy  again. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

85.  Vigil 

WHY  should  it  irk  me,  the  night, 
After  the  day  that  is  done? 
Stars,  making  distant  delight. 
Dew-pools,  instead  of  the  sun? 

Soft,  cool  winds,  and  the  scent 
Of  gardens,  silent  and  sweet; 
Why  should  I  lack  of  content, 
Joys  like  to  these  at  my  feet? 

Ah,  but  the  hours  are  long 
Ere  I  may  haste  from  afar, 
Seeking  your  face  like  a  song, 
Seeking  your  soul  like  a  star! 

Winds,  waters,  skies,  be  my  friend. 
Grant  me  swift  sleep,  and  to  wake 
Swiftly,  my  waiting  at  end, — 
Dearest,  be  mine  with  daybreak! 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 
86.  The  Return 


E 


ACH  April  night,  when  winds  will  not  be  still, 
I  hark  the  Old  Years  gathering  at  the  gate — 
Those  hordes  with  whom  'tis  neither  soon  nor  late- 
Like  dead  come  back  from  slumber  on  the  hill, 
listen — how  they  haunt  each  sunken  sill; 
And  how  they  beat  at  ancient  doors  in  vain! 
And  oh  their  tears ! — like  sudden  April  rain. 
Whose  brimming  urns  the  lawny  hollows  fill. 

73 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

I  know  that  it  is  so  (in  truth  they  come !) : 
For  on  the  gravel  ways  and  in  the  grass — 
Wherever  they  may  pause  or  lightly  pass — 

I  see,  'mid  snows  of  apple-bough  and  plum, 

Pale  plumes  of  lilac  scattered,  when  I  wake — 
Flowers  they  have  strewn  for  sweet  remembrance  sake. 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

87.  The  Speckled  Trout 

WITH  rod  and  line  I  took  my  way 
That  led  me  through  the  gossip  trees, 
Where  all  the  forest  was  asway 
With  hurry  of  the  running  breeze. 

I  took  my  hat  off  to  a  flower 
That  nodded  welcome  as  I  passed; 
And,  pelted  by  a  morning  shower, 
Unto  its  heart  a  bee  held  fast. 

A  head  of  gold  one  great  weed  tossed, 
And  leaned  to  look  when  I  went  by; 
And  where  the  brook  the  roadway  crossed 
The  daisy  kept  on  me  its  eye. 

And  when  I  stooped  to  bathe  my  face, 
And  seat  me  at  a  great  tree's  foot, 
I  heard  the  stream  say,  "Mark  the  place: 
And  undermine  it  rock  and  root." 

And  o'er  the  whirling  water  there 
A  dragonfly  its  shuttle  plied. 
Where  wild  a  fern  let  down  its  hair. 
And  leaned  to  see  the  water's  pride — 

74 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

A  speckled  trout.    The  spotted  elf, 
Whom  I  had  come  so  far  to  see, 
Stretched  out  above  a  rocky  shelf, 
A  shadow  sleeping  mockingly. 


And  I  have  sat  here  half  the  day 
Regarding  it.     It  has  not  stirred. 
I  heard  the  running  water  say — 
"He  does  not  know  the  magic  word. 

"The  word  that  changes  everything. 
And  brings  all  Nature  to  his  hand : 
That  makes  of  this  great  trout  a  king, 
And  opes  the  way  to  Faeryland." 


ETHEL  TALBOT  SCHEFFAUER 

88.  Wind  at  Night 

A  THIN  voice  in  the  darkness  all  night  long, 
I  hear  the  young  west  wind,  the  lover's  wind; 
No  tumult  in  its  voice,  nor  any  song, 
But  pitiful,  but  strange  and  lost  and  blind. 
If  I  should  once  unhasp  the  chamber  door. 

Set  on  the  moonlit  paths  my  naked  feet, 
Oh,  then,  no  more  a  mendicant  and  poor. 

But  like  a  strong  man,  with  wide  wings  that  beat 

The  air,  the  midnight  air,  to  rosy  light. 

The    great,   triumphant   western   wind    would   throng 
To  bear  me  to  my  lover  through  the  night. 
I  hear  it,  like  a  child,  so  weak  and  slight, 

A  thin  voice  in  the  darkness,  all  night  long. 

75 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

89.  Medieval 

SHE  said:  "My  babe  is  dead: 
Unchristened  did  he  die. 
I  wake  in  the  long,  lone  night 
And  hear  his  plaintive  cry. 

"I  wonder  does  God  hear. 
And  will  not  let  him  in — 

My  little  one  who  died 
All  innocent  of  sin? 

"The  wicked,  who  repent, 
Win  heaven,  so  men  say; 

And  was  my  bonny  child 

Less  dear  to  Him  than  they? 

'^There's  not  a  soul  in  bliss, 
Rejoicing  in  God's  Son, 

That's  purer  or  more  sweet 
Than  was  my  little  one ! 

"Lowly,  at  Mary's  shrine 
Before  the  dawn  of  day 

I  kneel,  for  him  to  plead 
Who  was  too  small  to  pray ! 

"Ah,  mother  blessed !  bring 
My  babe  to  know  the  light ! 

Or,  pitying,  win  for  me 

With  him  to  roam  the  night!" 


KENNETH  RAND 
90.  The  Blind  Gypsy 

MY   world   is   girt   with   a   rampart   of  wonder   and 
shadow. 
Sunless  I  wander,  forlorn,  on  the  barrens  of  Time 
and  Space — 
With  only  the  scent  of  the  sun  on  the  heather,  the  song 
o'er  the  meadow. 
The  dust  of  the  highway  warm  on  my  feet,  and  the 
wind  in  my  face. 

The  roads  that  I  knew  are  the  paths  of  an  infinite  terror. 
Treacherous,    threading    morasses    of    peril,    abysses 
of  night; 
And  only  the  feel  of  the  wmd  and  the  heat,  in  my  mazes 
of  error. 
To  whisper  of  dawn  or  of  noon,  and  the  dear  lost 
rapture  of  light. 

Yet,  with  the  sun  and  the  breeze  and  the  dust  on  the 
highway, 
Only,  O  Lord,  to  feel! — and  I  cling  to  thy  garment's 
fold— 
And  the  snapping  of  fires  that  I  may  not  see,  by  the 
hedge  in  the  byway. 
Is   the  crackle  of  flame-new   stars,   and   the   clangor 
of  gates  of  gold. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

91.  Garden  Closes 

EARTH  buffets  and  harasses 
Her  children,  day  by  day; 
Pricked  on  by  harsh  endeavor. 
Debarred  of  prayer  and  play. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

Chasing  a  Shade  forever, 
Man  fares  by  perilous  passes, 
Till  he  be  bent  and  gray. 

But  Life, — how  deep  the  kindness 
That  saves  us  from  despair! 
Hath  eke  her  garden  closes  • 

Where  all  is  calm  and  fair; 
Some  place  of  rest  and  roses 
Where  man  puts  off  his  blindness 
Of  canker  and  of  care. 

There  music  sounds,  clear-hearted, 
And  star-eyed  women  smile. 
There  friends,  estranged  in  seeming. 
Forget  their  former  guile; 
Above,  to  help  the  dreaming, 
The  clouds  are  soft  disparted 
By  warm,  sweet  moons  the  while. 

Into  this  sacred  haven 
Of  health  and  happy  lure, 
Come  marred  and  haunted  faces 
To  taste  a  pleasure  pure; 
In  this  most  dear  of  places 
What  word  or  wish  is  craven 
These  walls  may  not  immure. 

So,  frayed  upon  sharp  edges 
Of  knives  that  cut  full  deep. 
Our  own  lost  souls  pursuing, 
We  may  thereafter  creep 
Away  from  sordid  doing. 
Behind  these  holy  hedges 
For  solace  and  for  sleep. 


RUTH  SHEPARD  PHELPS 

92.  The  Guardian  Deeps 

THE  past  is  like  the  sea,  for  both  do  hold 
Our  sunken  treasure,  all  our  ships  gone  down. 
The  riches  men  take  with  them  when  they  drown, 
Jasper  and  jade  and  ivory,  coins  untold, 
The  sea's  green  depths  forever  shall  enfold, 

While  to  and  fro  the  sands  wash,  fine  and  brown, 
Discovering,  covering  torque  and  ring  and  crown. 
We  see,  yet  may  not  reach,  their  gleaming  gold. 

Even  so  that  other,  widest  of  the  seas 

Receives  our  treasure — faces,  memories,  days, 

And  silenced  voices — and,  though  over  these 
Our  daily  life  its  slow  deposit  lays 

Of  shifting  thought,  they  shall  be  guarded  fast. 

Yet  irrecoverable,  in  our  past. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

93.  Christmas  Downtown 

THE  sleepless  leave  their  lair,  the  sun  begins 
To  charge  the  clouds  with  glory,  and  the  bells 
Sound  forth  above  the  city  and  its  sins; 
Hear,  how  the  sudden  music  wells  and  swells ! 

The  sullen  folk  go  forth  in  quest  of  bread. 
Crime  knows  not  holiday,  nor  hunger  bliss. 
Behold  the  living  who  are  worse  than  dead. 
Our  fellow  mortals  who  have  come  to  this! 

Are  there  good  tidings  for  the  out-of-work. 

Or  is  the  gladness  but  a  mockery 

To  make  more  bitter  vagrant,  crook  and  shirk 

And  light  o'  love, — the  slaves  who  think  them  free? 


RICHARD  BURTON 

Lurks  there  deep  down  beneath  the  sodden  scene 
Some  miracle  shall  flood  the  dark  with  light, 
Some  image  of  a  joy  that  once  has  been, 
Some  pledge  to  make  the  errant  heart  go  right? 

The  tattered  legion  of  the  luckless,  lost, 
Yea,  all  the  confraternity  of  knaves, 
Surely,  for  such  He  came, — else  all  the  cost, 
The  gauds  and  gifts  be  barren  as  their  graves. 

His  gift  is  love;  His  day  a  symbol  sweet 
To  hint  the  heaven  that  seems  so  far  from  earth. 
Drawn  by  that  bond  must  saint  and  sinner  meet 
Within  the  radiance  of  the  Stainless  Birth. 

Christmas  shall  ne'er  be  Christmas,  till  the  hour 
When  every  breathing  thing  may  humbly  learn 
The  clasp  of  comrades,  pluck  the  fadeless  flower 
Of  sacrifice,  and  toward  some  brother  yearn. 

Prate  not  of  giving  that  is  for  the  day; 
Kindness  is  not  computed  by  a  sum; 
The  lore  of  Christ  is  here,  not  far  away. 
Out  of  the  heart  the  holy  wish  must  come. 

Hark  to  the  words:  "To  me  a  child  is  born." 
It  rings  and  sings,  and  rises  once  again, 
Clear  o'er  the  wailing  of  the  wan,  white  morn, 
The  immemorial  cry,  "Good  will  to  men !" 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
94.  Petruchio's  Wife 

AY,  go  your  ways,  my  lord.    Look  where  he  struts 
jf\And  ruffles  it  along  the  sunny  street! 

His  doublet's  broken  at  the  seam  again — 
I'll  look  to  it  when  he  comes  home.     He's  worse 
Than  any  wanton  youngling  on  his  gear. 
A  gallant  bearing — he  is  well  worth  ten 
Of  my  fair  sister's  pretty  mummer.    Bah ! 
Playing  the  schoolmaster  to  win  a  bride 
He  might  have  had  by  knocking  at  the  door 
And  shaking  a  fat  purse!    Petruchio 
Measures  more  nearly  to  a  man's  degree; 
Yet  he  is  but  a  boy,  an  o'er-grown  boy. 
Was  ever  man  so  easily  deceived? 
What,  did  he  think  that  he  could  master  me 
By  wearying  my  body,  starving  it, 
Shaming  it  with  vile  raiment?    Bless  the  fool! 
And  yet  I  swear  I  did  not  bless  him  then — 
I  could  have  slain  him,  rather;  but  I  thought, 
"Kate,  thou  art  married ;  make  the  best  of  it. 
Thou  hadst  been  wiser  to  lead  apes  in  hell. 
But  since  thy  cup  of  folly  has  been  poured. 
Drink  it  off  smiling.     He  shall  pay  anon." 
There  at  Bianca's  feast,  when  he  would  show 
His  power  so  braggartly,  I  had  well-nigh 
Defied  him  to  his  face, — but  I  recalled 
Hortensio's  fine  madam,  and  her  taunt. 
**What  other  way  to  sting  so  well,"  thought  I, 
"As  show  myself  the  model,  her  the  shrew?" 
Eh,  did  I  sweetly  play  the  pattern  wife? 
Ask  of  Petruchio's  purse,  where  merrily 
His  fellow-bridegroom's  golden  forfeits  clinked — 
(Until  he  spent  the  better  part  of  them 
Upon  a  cap  richer  an  hundredfold 
Than  that  I  spurned  to  please  him!)     Am  I  tamed? 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Thus  much,  perhaps  .   .  .  that  now  I  play  my  part 

Not  bitterly,  but  laughing  in  a  sleeve 

Which  now  is  fashioned  to  my  own  desire, 

I  praying  his  approval;  and  instead 

Of  anger  at  his  boastful  boyishness 

Is  something,  neither  pity  nor  yet  love — 

The  child  of  both,  perchance. 

I  used  to  think 
That  when  I  held  the  larder  keys,  himself 
Should  fast  some  day,  to  pay  that  fast  of  mine. 
But  when  the  time  came,  I  no  longer  cared 
For  little  vengeance  on  a  little  wrong. 
And  so  I  feed  him  well,  and  speak  him  fair. 
And  keep  him  bravely  clad,  and  when  he  meets 
His  friends,  he  vaunts  the  merits  of  his  wife, 
While  they  all  marvel  at  the  mastered  shrew ! 
Look — he  comes  home — he's  never  long  away. 
How  boyish-gay  he  waves  an  eager  hand, 
Seeing  me  waiting  at  the  window  here! 
God  rest  thee,  merry,  good  Petruchio; 
How  I  could  love  thee  .    .    .  wert  thou  more  a  man ! 
My  excellent  dear  lord!    Art  thou  returned? 
Then  is  the  day  grown  bright  for  Katharine! 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

95.  Battle-Song  of  Failure 

WE  strain  toward  Heaven  and  lay  hold  on  Hell; 
With  starward  eyes  we  stumble  in  hard  ways, 
And  to  the  moments  when  we  see  life  well 
Succeeds  the  blindness  of  bewildered  days, — 
But  what  of  that?    Into  the  sullen  flesh 

Our  souls  drive  home  the  spur  with  splendid  sting. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Bleeding  and  soiled,  we  gird  ourselves  afresh. 
Forth,  and  make  firm  a  highway  for  the  King. 

The  loveless  greed  the  centuries  have  stored 

In  marshy  foulness  traps  our  faltering  feet. 
The  sins  of  men  whom  punishment  ignored 

Like  fever  in  our  weakened  pulses  beat; 
But  what  of  that?    The  shame  is  not  to  fail, 

Nor  is  the  victor's  laurel  everything. 
To  fight  until  we  fall  is  to  prevail. 

Forth,  and  make  firm  a  highway  for  the  King. 

Yea,  cast  our  lives  into  the  ancient  slough, 

And  fall  we  shouting,  with  uplifted  face. 
Over  the  spot  where  mired  we  struggle  now 

Shall  march  in  triumph  a  transfigured  race. 
They  shall  exult  where  weary  we  have  wept — 

They  shall  achieve  where  we  have  striven  in  vain- 
Leaping  in  vigor  where  we  faintly  crept, 

Joyous  along  the  road  we  paved  with  pain. 
What  though  we  seem  to  sink  in  the  morass? 

Under  those  unborn  feet  our  dust  shall  sing. 
When  o'er  our  failure  perfect  shall  they  pass. 

Forth,  and  make  firm  a  highway  for  the  King. 


JOYCE  KILMER 
96.  St.  Alexis 

(Patron  of  Beggars) 

WE  who  beg  for  bread  as  we  daily  tread 
Country  lane  and  city  street. 
Let  us  kneel  and  pray  on  the  broad  highway 
To  the  saint  with  the  vagrant  feet. 

83 


JOYCE  KILMER 

Our  altar  light  is  a  buttercup  bright, 

And  our  shrine  is  a  bank  of  sod, 
But  still  we  share  St.  Alexis'  care, 

The  Vagabond  of  God! 

They  gave  him  a  home  in  purple  Rome 

And  a  princess  for  his  bride, 
But  he  rowed  away  on  his  wedding  day 

Down  the  Tiber's  rushing  tide. 
And  he  came  to  land  on  the  Asian  strand 

Where  the  heathen  people  dwell; 
As  a  beggar  he  strayed  and  he  preached  and  prayed, 

And  he  saved  their  souls  from  hell. 

Bowed  with  years  and  pain  he  came  back  again 

To  his  father's  dwelling  place. 
There  was  none  to  see  who  this  tramp  might  be, 

For  they  knew  not  his  bearded  face. 
But  his  father  said,  "Give  him  drink  and  bread 

And  a  couch  underneath  the  stair." 
So  Alexis  crept  to  his  hole  and  slept. 

But  he  might  not  linger  there. 

For  when  night  came  down  on  the  seven-hilled  town, 

And  the  emperor  hurried  in. 
Saying,  "Lo,  I  hear  that  a  saint  is  near 

Who  will  cleanse  us  of  our  sin," 
Then  they  looked  in  vain  where  the  saint  had  lain, 

For  his  soul  had  fled  afar, 
From  his  fleshly  home  he  had  gone  to  roam 

Where  the  gold-paved  highways  are. 

We  who  beg  for  bread  as  we  daily  tread 

Country  lane  and  city  street. 
Let  us  kneel  and  pray  on  the  broad  highway 

To  the  saint  with  the  vagrant  feet. 

84 


JOYCE  KILMER 

Our  altar  light  is  a  buttercup  bright, 
And  our  shrine  is  a  bank  of  sod, 

But  still  we  share  St.  Alexis'  care, 
The  Vagabond  of  God! 


M.  E.  BUHLER 
97.  On  the  Housetop 

SERENE  at  sunset  on  the  roof 
I  watch  the  daylight  passing  by; 
The  cares  of  earth  have  sunk  abashed 
Beneath  the  perfect  sky. 

All  sounds  have  mingled  into  one 
Deep  rhythmic  murmur,  far,  subdued, 

As  if  the  city's  pulsing  heart 
Beat  in  the  solitude. 

Beyond  the  level  roofs  a  sail 
Creeps  slowly  over  sunset  seas; 

A  mist  is  on  the  evening  hills, 
And  night  amid  the  trees. 

Far  overhead  a  homing  bird 

Flies  dark  against  the  changing  sky, 

Now  lost  in  cloud,  now  plunged  in  fire 
Where  lakes  of  sunlight  lie. 

Half  shrouded  in  the  harbor  mists 

Earth  lights  come  twinkling  into  view; 

As  one  by  one  majestic  stars 
The  fields  of  heaven  strew. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

98.  November 

HARK  you  such  sound  as  quivers?    Kings  will  hear, 
As  kings  have  heard,  and  tremble  on  their  thrones; 
The  old  will  feel  the  weight  of  mossy  stones; 
The  young  alone  will  laugh  and  scoff  at  fear. 
It  is  the  tread  of  armies  marching  near, 
From  scarlet  lands  to  lands  forever  pale; 
It  is  a  bugle  dying  down  the  gale; 
It  is  the  sudden  gushing  of  a  tear. 
And  it  is  hands  that  grope  at  ghostly  doors; 
And  romp  of  spirit  children  on  the  pave; 
It  is  the  tender  sighing  of  the  brave 
Who  fell,  ah!  long  ago,  in  futile  wars; 

It  is  such  sound  as  death;  and,  after  all, 
'Tis  but  the  forest  letting  dead  leaves  fall. 


BADGER  CLARK 

99.  The  Coyote 

TRAILING  the  last  gleam  after 
In  the  valleys  emptied  of  light, 
Ripples  a  whimsical  laughter 
Under  the  wings  of  the  night. 
Mocking  the  faded  west  airily. 
Meeting  the  little  bats  merrily, 
Over  the  mesas  it  shrills 
To  the  red  moon  on  the  hills. 

Mournfully  rising  and  waning, 

Far  through  the  moon-silvered  land 

Wails  a  weird  voice  of  complaining 
Over  the  thorns  and  the  sand. 


BADGER  CLARK 

Out  of  blue  silences  eerily, 
On  to  the  black  mountains  wearily, 
Till  the  dim  desert  is  crossed. 
Wanders  the  cry,  and  is  lost. 

Here  by  the  fire's  ruddy  streamers, 

Tired  with  our  hopes  and  our  fears, 
We  inarticulate  dreamers 

Hark  to  the  song  of  our  years. 
Up  to  the  brooding  divinity 
Far  in  that  sparkling  infinity 

Cry  our  despair  and  delight, 

Voice  of  the  desert  night! 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

100.  The  Ancient  Sacrifice 

YE  dead  and  gone  great  armies  of  the  world. 
Sweet  gleam  the  fields  where  ye  were  used  to  pass. 
With  Death  for  leader,  legioned  like  the  grass. 
Day  after  day  by  dews  of  morning  pearled. 

Ye  dead  and  gone  great  armies,  ye  were  hurled 
'Gainst  other  armies,  great  and  dead  and  gone. 
In  awful  dark:  ye  died  before  the  dawn, 
Ne'er  knowing  how  your  flags  in  peace  are  furled ! 

Ye  are  the  tall  fair  forests  that  were  felled 

To  build  a  pyre  for  strife  that  it  might  cease; 
Ye  are  the  white  lambs  slaughtered  to  bring  peace; 

Ye  are  the  sweet  ships  sunk  that  storm  be  quelled; 
And  ye  are  lilies  plucked  and  set  like  stars 
About  the  blood-stained  shrine  of  bygone  wars! 

87 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
101.  The  Child  in  Black 


0 


UT  in  the  street  the  children  play; 
They  shout  and  laugh  till  I  come  by, 
Then  they  are  still  and  go  away — 
I  wonder  why. 


And  grown-up  people's  faces  too — 
Until  they  see  me,  they  are  glad. 
I  wonder  what  it  is  I  do 
That  turns  them  sad. 

And  father — when  he  looks  at  me. 
He  is  sad  too,  and  though  he  tries 
To  wink  them  back,  I  always  see 
Tears  in  his  eyes. 

Nobody  looks  at  me  the  same 
Since  mother  went  to  heaven  to  stay. 
Do  they  think  I  am  to  blame 
For  sending  her  away? 


WITTER  BYNNER 

102.  Wirmier  of  Second 

100K  me  in  the  face,  lad, 
_j     Give  me  your  hand  to  shake! 

I  saw  you  run  your  race,  lad. 
And  I  saw  the  sudden  break 
Bring  hot  upon  your  forehead 

The  anger  asking  why; 
And  there  were  more  who  saw  it. 
Others  as  well  as  I. 


WITTER  BYNNER 

We  cried  aloud  our  protest, 

We  crowded  round  the  track; 
But  the  judges  had  not  noticed 

His  arm  that  swung  you  back. 
Although  that's  what  they're  for,  lad, 

To  spy  a  fault  or  foul, 
We  liked  you  all  the  more,  lad, 

For  swiftness  of  your  soul. 

You  heard  the  winner's  statement 

And  silently  you  backed 
His  word  without  abatement 

Of  your  knowledge  of  the  fact. 
But,  lad,  the  dust  shall  thicken 

On  a  forgotten  prize. 
And   victory   shall  quicken 

In  your  remembered  eyes! 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 
103.  Jewel-Weed 

THOU  lonely,  dew-wet  mountain  road. 
Traversed  by  toiling  feet  each  day. 
What  rare  enchantment  maketh  thee 
Appear  so  gay? 

Thy  sentinels,  on  either  hand 

Rise  tamarack,  birch  and  balsam-fir. 

O'er  the  familiar  shrubs  that  greet 
The  wayfarer; 

But  here's  a  magic  cometh  new — 
A  joy  to  gladden  thee,  indeed: 

This  passionate  out-flowering  of 
The  jewel-weed, 

89 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

That  now,  when  days  are  growing  drear, 
As  summer  dreams  that  she  is  old,. 

Hangs  out  a  myriad  pleasure-bells 
Of  mottled   gold! 

Thine  only,  these,  thou  lonely  road! 

Though  hands  that  take,  and  naught  restore, 
Rob  thee  of  other  treasured  things, 

Thine  these  are,  for 

A  fairy,  cradled  in  each  bloom, 
To  all  who  pass  the  charmed  spot 

Whispers  in  warning: — "Friend,  admire, — 
But  touch  me  not! 

*^ Leave  me  to  blossom  where  I  sprung, 

A  joy  untarnished  shall  I  seem; 
Pluck  me,  and  you  dispel  the  charm 

And  blur  the  dream!" 


MADISON  CAWEIN 
104.  At  the  End  of  the  Road 

THIS  is  the  truth  as  I  see  it,  my  dear. 
Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain: 
They  who  have  nothing  have  little  to  fear,- 
Nothing  to  lose  or  to  gain. 
Here  by  the  road  at  the  end  o'  the  year. 
Let  us  sit  down  and  drink  of  our  beer, 
Happy-Go-Lucky  and  her  Cavalier, 
Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

Now  we  are  old,  hey,  isn't  it  fine, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain? 
Now  we  have  nothing,  why  snivel  and  whine? 

What  would  it  bring  us  again? 

90 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

When  I  was  young  I  took  you  like  wine, 
Held  you  and  kissed  you  and  thought  you  divine- 
Happy-Go-Lucky,  the  habit's  still  mine, 
Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

Oh,  my  old  Heart,  what  a  life  we  have  led, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain! 
How  we  have  drunken  and  how  we  have  fed ! 

Nothing  to  lose  or  to  gain. 
Cover  the  fire  now;  get  we  to  bed. 
Long  is  the  journey  and  far  has  it  led. . 
Come,  let  us  sleep,  lass,  sleep  like  the  dead, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 


STOKELY  S.  FISHER 
105.  A  Song  of  the  Sunset 

OWIND   from   the   golden   prairie,   sweet   from   the 
billowy  lea 
Where  the  orbed  sun  floats  at  setting  like  sunset 
on  the  sea, 
A   fragrance,  not   of  the   flowers,   is   shaken   from   your 
wings ; 

In  my  breast  a  glow, 
A    burning,    not   of   the    sun,    at    touch    of   your    kisses 

springs; 
And  voices,  not  for  the  ear,  a  spirit  in  me  can  hear, 
Far  voices  I  know! 

O  tumbling  ocean  of  light,  O  waves  from  the  westward 

rolled ! 
From  islands  of  desire  in  regions  known  of  old, 
From  immortal  years  of  hope  in  the  charmed  world  of 
the  child, 

Returns  the  tide 

91 


STOKELY  S.  FISHER 

With  the  spell  of  a  pristine  time  when  life  was  free  and 

wild; 
And  I  fly  away,  away  down  the  vistas  of  yesterday 
Where  dreams  abide ! 

Illusion  the  wonder-wrought  progress!     My  heart  to  the 

past  is  true, 
And  vision  only  is  real,  and  only  the  vanished  I  view! 
The  wraiths  of  mother's  flowers  coax  me  back,  enchanted, 

To  the  home  she  made 
In  the   cabin  beside  the   trail,   embowered   in   vines   she 

planted ; 
Her  roses  and  mignonette,  I  feel  them  blooming  yet — 
They  cannot  fade! 

Our  home,  a  little  isle  in  a  limitless  ocean  of  grass! 

Now  over  my  soul  again  the  silencing  shadows  pass 

That  fell  in  the  lonesome  gloaming, — the  sorrow  so  sol- 
emnly sweet. 

The  awe  thereof! 

How  we  nestled,  like  huddling  birds,  about  our  mother's 
feet! 

But  we  never  wished  to  roam:  our  world  was  small  as 
home. 

As  large  as  love! 

We  dwelt  in  wonderland,  and  caught  the  secrets  known 
To  fairy  creatures  with  wings,  and  from  timid  blossoms 

blown ;     . 
We   knew   the  hearts   of  wild   things,   frank   nature   our 

only  book! — 

Oh  we  were  free — 
In  my  heart  is  a  hungry  pang  as  out  o'er  the  plain  I  look ! 
But  the  cabin  has  crumbled  down,  and  the  old  trail  leads 

to  a  town 

Where  it  used  to  be! 

92 


JAMES  NORMAN  HALL 

106.  Charwomen 

THERE  is  a  building  on  a  city  square 
That  soars  in  marble  to  a  golden  dome; 
A  temple  reared  to  Pleasure,  and  her  home. 
Thither,  at  night,  her  votaries  repair 
To  worship  her  in  wine  and  dainty  fare. 

Laughter  and  lights  and  music  dance  and  foam 
Upon  the  liquid  hours  till  day  be  come, 
Driving  them  like  thin  vapors  into  air. 

Then  do  these  others,  creeping  on  all  fours, 

Do  Pleasure's  drudge-work  when  herself  hath  fled. 
To  them  her  palace  nothing  is  but  floors 
And  staircases,  all  soilure  with  her  tread. 

They  crawl  through  empty  rooms  and  corridors, 
Gathering  broken  meats  and  crusts  of  bread. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

107.  The  Symbol 

WHAT  is  the  symbol  underneath  it  all, 
The  secret  message  of  the  throb  of  things: 
The  flower  tossings  and  the  whirl  of  wings. 
The  glow  and  scent  when  June  makes  carnival? 
'Tis  like  a  sweet  lost  word  of  some  old  speech 
Man  has  forgotten  yet  can  almost  reach. 

Listen!   The  sap  doth  murmur  it,  the  rain 
Chants  it  in  sibilant  monotone,  the  breeze 
Lifting  a  voice  among  the  fluttered  trees. 
Takes  up  the  song,  repeats  it  once  again; 
And  all  the  movement  in  the  summer  grass 
Seems  pulsing  to  express  it  ere  it  pass. 

93 


RICHARD  BURTON 

Ever  and  alway,  iterant  and  low, 

The  whisper  and  the  hint,  the  half  untold 

Suggestion  that  is  as  the  ages  old. 

Yet  fresh-faced  now  as  in  the  long  ago: 

'^Seek,  ye  shall  find,  for  you  and  I  are  one, 

Bound  each  to  other  since  the  years  begun. 

"You  hear  the  call  of  kinship  in  my  voice, 
My  very  breathing  makes  me  part  of  you; 
The  gifts  I  oflFer  are  a  residue 
Of  your  inheritance  and  natural  choice; 
Man  is  not  man  who  hath  not  eye  to  see 
My  luminous  gloss  on  Nature's  mystery. 

"Rich-languaged,   fraught  with  memories   and 

dreams, 
I  lure  you  back  in  sacred  moments  when 
You  learn,  oblivious  to  the  lore  of  men. 
The  lesson  of  the  forests,  fields  and  streams; 
Deep  at  my  heart,  deeper  thain  all  my  mirth. 
The  long-withholden  meaning  of  tjie  earth." 

In  syllables  of  beauty,  yea,  with  words 
That  move  like  music  through  the  summer  ways. 
Nature  doth  speak,  and  in  her  every  phrase, — 
The  choiring  rivers  and  the  lyric  birds, — 
She  draws  us  from  false  gods,  and  our  release 
Is  certified  by  joy  and  love  and  peace. 


94 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

108.  The  White  Flag 

WHOE'ER  you  be  at  whom  in  youthful  scorn 
My  tongue  has  loosed  the  poisoned  jibe, 
A  truce  I  crave! 
Even  though,  beneath  an  alien  planet  born. 
You  could  not  every  article  subscribe 
Of  my  peculiar  creed. 

How  swift  for  both  the  desperate  minutes  speed 

That  bear  us  to  a  common  grave 
Without  reprieve! 
How  steep  the  climb,  and  how  profusely  bleed 
Your  feet  and  mine  along  the  heights  we  brave 

For  love  of  life  and  art ! 

For  longer  strife  I  have  not  strength  nor  heart; 

For  misdirected  blows  I  grieve. 
I  hold  my  creed ; 
But,  as  I  crave  indulgence  on  your  part, 
That  you  have  meant  your  best  I  must  believe, 

And  wish  us  both,  God-speed! 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

109.  The  Closed  Book 

SHUT  it  out  of  the  heart— this  grief, 
O  Love,  with  the  years  grown  old  and  hoary ! 
And  let  in  joy  that  life  is  brief. 
And  give  God  thanks  for  the  end  of  the  story. 
The  bond  of  the  flesh  is  transitory, 
And  beauty  goes  with  the  lapse  of  j^ears — 
The  brow's  white  rose  and  the  hair's  dark  glory — 
God  be  thanked  for  the  severing  shears ! 

95 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

Over  the  past,  Heart,  waste  no  tears! 
Over  the  past  and  all  its  madness, 
Its  wine  and  wormwood,  hopes  and  fears — 
They  never  were  worth  a  moment's  sadness. 
Here  she  lies  who  was  part  of  its  gladness, 
Wife  and  mistress,  and  shared  its  woe. 
The  good  of  life  as  well  as  its  badness — 
Look  on  her  face  and  see  if  you  know. 

Is  this  the  face — yea,  ask  it  slow — 

The  hair,  the  form,  we  used  to  cherish? 

Where  is  the  glory  of  long-ago? 

The  beauty  we  said,  would  never  perish. 

Like  a  dream  we  dream,  or  a  thought  we  nourish, 

Nothing  of  earth  immortal  is: 

This  is  the  end  however  we  flourish — 

All  that  is  fair  must  come  to  this. 

RICHARD  BURTON 
110.  Idols 

THEY  made  them  idols  in  the  elder  days. 
Idols  and  images  of  brass  and  stone, 
To  bow  before  their  semblance, — when  the  praise 
Should  go,  O  God,  to  Thee  and  Thee  alone. 

Yet  who  shall  say  how  much  of  tender  trust, 
Of  deep-heart  adoration  and  desire 
Was  hid  behind  these  symbols  of  the  dust 
That  rose  like  smoke  to  dim  the  central  fire? 

How  often  in  those  heathen  hearts,  indeed. 
Ardent  and  upwardly  there  must  have  burned 
A  flame  of  worship,  an  imperious  need 
To  clasp  and  kiss  the  thing  toward  which  they 
yearned ! 


RICHARD  BURTON 

Midst  of  the  mystic  Orient  today, 

Far  to  the  North,  or  where  the  great  South  Seas 

Circle  the  islands,  gather  still  to  pray 

The  myriad  folk  whose  faith  is  like  to  these. 

Rebuke  them  not:   even  as  a  root  at  birth 
Feels  upward  to  the  light,  these  simple  men 
Foredream  the  flower,  and  darkly  from  the  earth 
Salute  a  Mystery  beyond  their  ken. 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

111.  Christmas  Night  in  Belgium 

WHERE  are  the  Shepherds  who  watch  the  flocks? 
The  sheep  are  all  astray; 
The  night  is  dark,  the  Wise  Men  far, 
No  sign  there  is  of  the  Ancient  Star; 
Where  are  the  Shepherds,  pray? 

The  Shepherds  lie  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  very  still  are  they. 

The  Mothers  call,  the  Babies  cry, 

The  Angels  gaze  from  the  silent  sky 

And  weeping  turn  away. 

Where  do  the  tears  of  the  Angels  fall? 
They  fall  on  the  hearts  of  men. 
Oh,  smitten  Babe  on  Belgium's  knee. 
The  Nations  run  with  their  gifts  for  thee. 
And  dream  of  Peace  again. 


9T 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
112.  The  Lame  Child 

HE  passed  along  our  village  street; 
The  fame  of  him  had  gone  before. 
They  came  in  crowds  on  whispering  feet 
To  mock  or  marvel  or  appeal. 
I  caught  my  child  from  where  he  lay 
And  stood  expectant  in  the  door, — 
Many  the  sick  he  healed  that  day, 
But  mine  he  did  not  heal. 

He  paused  before  us  where  we  stood. 
And  looked  into  my  boy's  blue  eyes — 
Those  eyes  of  tortured  babyhood 
Reproaching  life  with  mute  surprise! 
It  would  have  taken  but  a  word 
From  him,  to  make  our  way  so  clear, — 
Many  the  prayers  that  day  he  heard, 
But  mine  he  did  not  hear. 

Yet  this  he  did — his  head  he  bent 
And  kissed  my  boy  upon  the  cheek; 
He  turned  upon  me  as  he  went 
Eyes  that  were  terrible  with  tears. 
Silent,  I  shrank  before  the  deeps 
Of  mysteries  too  great  to  speak, — 
But  oh,  my  patient  child  who  creeps 
Along  his  crippled  years ! 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

113.  Women  and  War 

WOMEN,  in  war-time  yours  how  hard  the  task, 
Service  from  you  how  difficult  we  ask ! 
Glorious  to  stand  against  the  leaden  hail. 
In  the  mown  war-line  not  to  flinch  or  fail ! 
Splendid  the  onrush  and  the  charging  cheer. 
Yet  glorious  too  to  check  the  coming  tear. 
The  doubt  by  night  to  stifle  through  the  day; 
The  deep  alarm  not  outwardly  betray. 
O  dull  expectancy  that  finds  not  vent! 
O  silent  anguish  that  will  not  lament! 
O  mad  uncertainty  from  dawn  to  eve! 
O  worse  to  wait  than  battle  to  receive! 
Heroes  are  ye,  who  but  the  sob  repress, 
Your  victory,  dumb,  is  victory  no  less! 

MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

114.  At  a  Child's  Grave 

HE  is  but  biding  here  beneath  the  sod: 
Who  moved  of  old  the  seasons  moves  them  yet: 
How  should  he  come,  in  slumber,  to  forget 
The  orphan'd  flower  and  the  wondering  clod? 

With  slimmest  wildwood  lily-stem  for  rod. 
He  rules  the  forest  and  the  folk  thereof: 
A  myriad  furry  liegemen  his;  in  love. 
The  pines  o'erarch  the  path  where  last  he  trod. 

Spring  does  his  bidding  still:  the  brook  he  knew 
Leaps  at  a  lisp  from  him,  and  every  bird 
Breaks  into  rippling  rapture  at  the  word 

Which  mixes  with  its  song  as  rain  with  dew. 
June  tarries  here  alert,  for  well  she  knows 
His  little  hands  release  the  prisoned  rose. 

99 


A 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

115.  Out  of  Babylon 

^  S  I  stole  out  of  Babylon  beyond  the  stolid  warders, 
(My  soul  that  dwelt  in  Babylon  long,  long  ago!) 
The  sound  of  cymbals  and  of  lutes,  of  viols  and 
recorders. 
Came  up  from  khan  and  caravan,  loud  and  low. 

As  I  crept  out  of  Babylon,  the  clangor  and  the  babel, 
The  strife  of  life,  the  haggling  in  the  square  and  mart, 

Of  the  men  who  went  in  saffron  and  the  men  who  went 
in  sable. 
It  tore  me  and  it  wore  me,  yea,  it  wore  my  heart. 

As  I  fled  out  of  Babylon,  the  cubits  of  the  towers 
They  seemed  in  very  mockery  to  bar  my  way; 

The  incense  of  the  altars,  and  the  hanging-garden  flowers, 
They  lured  me  with  their  glamour,  but  I  would  not 
stay. 

We  still  flee  out  of  Babylon,  its  vending  and  its  vying. 
Its  crying  up  to  Mammon,  its  bowing  to  Baal; 

We  still  flee  out  of  Babylon,  its  sobbing  and  its  sighing. 
Where  the  strong  grow  ever  stronger,  and  the  weary 
fail! 

We  still  flee  out  of  Babylon,  the  feverish,  the  fretful, 
That  saps  the  sweetness  of  the  soul  and  leaves  but 
a  rind; 

W^e  still  flee  out  of  Babylon,  and  fain  would  be  forgetful 
Of  all  within  that  thrall  of  wall  threatening  behind ! 

Oh,  Babylon,  oh,  Babylon,  your  toiling  and  your  teeming. 
Your  canyons  and  your  wonder-wealth, — not  for  such 


as  we 


We   who   have    fled   from    Babylon    contented    are    with 
dreaming, — 
Dreaming  of  earth's  loveliness,  happy  to  be  free ! 


100 


MARGAREr  WJJ)riEM>E>R;.  > 

116.  The  Dead  Friend 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  is  dead  at  length  today, 
(O  sooner  than  I  thought  she  could 
have  died!) 
And  I  must  go  the  rest  of  life's  long  way 
Without  her  by  my  side. 

She  was  so  gay,  so  glad  of  wind  and  sun, 
Of  mirth,  of  love,  all  sweet  earth-things 
that  shine — 

I  do  not  know  how  living  can  be  done 
Without  her  hand  in  mine; 

Yet  I  must  smile  as  if  the  world  was  fair, 
I  must  not  veil  my  eyes  or  bow  my  head: 

One  may  not  grieve,  or  seem  to  feel  or  care 
When  only  Youth  is  dead. 


MADISON  CAWEIN 
117.  A  Ghost  of  Yesterday 

THERE  is  a  house  beside  a  way. 
Where  dwells  a  ghost  of  Yesterday: 

The  old  face  of  a  beauty  faded 
Looks  from  its  garden:  and  the  shaded 
Long  walks  of  locust-trees,  that  seem 
Forevermore  to  sigh  and  dream, 
Keep  whispering  low  a  word,  that's  true, 
Of  shapes  that  haunt  its  avenue, 
Clad  as  in  days  of  belle  and  beau. 

Who  come  and  go 
Around  its  ancient  portico. 

At  first,  in  stock  and  beaver-hat, 
With  flitting  of  the  moth  and  bat, 


> ;  .i .; :  V  MA}?ISON  OAWEIN 

An  old  man,  leaning  on  a  cane, 

Comes  slowly  down  the  locust-lane; 

Looks  at  the  house;  then,  groping,  goes 

Into  the  garden  where  the  rose 

Still  keeps  sweet  tryst  with  moth  and  moon: 

And,  humming  to  himself  a  tune, — 

**Lorena"  or  "Ben  Bolt,"  we'll  say,— 

Waits,  bent  and  gray, 
For  some  fair  ghost  of  Yesterday. 

The  Yesterday  that  holds  his  all — 
More  real  to  him  than  is  the  wall 
Of  mossy  stone  near  which  he  stands. 
Still  reaching  out  for  her  his  hands — 
For  her,  the  girl,  who  waits  him  there, 
A  lace-gowned  phantom,  dark  of  hair, 
Whose  loveliness  still  keeps  those  walks, 
And  with  whose  Memory  he  talks; 
Upon  his.  heart  her  happy  head, — 

So  it  is  said, — 
The  girl,  now  half  a  century  dead. 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

118.  Stormy  Sunset 

THE  clouds  build  black  a  giant  hall, 
Round  which  the  winds  like  madmen  stride; 
Wild  voices  call  from  wall  to  wall. 
And  earth  is  tossed  from  side  to  side. 

Fury  and  Madness  meet  at  board 

And  sit  at  feast;  anon  they  rise, 

And  thunderous  sword  smites   thunderous  sword. 

And  each  one  by  the  other  dies. 

102 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

Then  suddenly  a  crimson  hand 
Hurls  wide  a  window,  deep  as  doom, 
At  which  a  Titan  takes  his  stand. 
Burning  within  a  burning  room. 

The  window  slowly  closes  down 
And  leaves  a  crack  at  which  appear 
Two  windy  lights  that  glare  and  frown. 
And  seem  the  blood-shot  eyes  of  Fear. 

The  sun  is  gone;  and  from  the  east 
There  comes  a  dripping  step  and  lamp; 
The  wind's  wild  maunderings  have  ceased; 
The  moon  looks  down  on  dew  and  damp. 


GEORGE  NORTON  NORTHROP 
119.  Wisdom 

'•Ripeness  is  all" 
I 

THE  air  was  keen,  the  shadows  far  had  fled: 
He  stood  upon  the  height,  beyond  all  lore 
Of  seers  and  sages  who  had  gone  before: 
He  looked  upon  that  region  far  outspread 
And  felt  the  eager  pain,  the  joyous  dread 
Of  entering  in  upon  that  unknown  shore, 
His  flaming,  dreamed-of  hope  to  journey  o'er, 
Reward  of  all  his  toil  among  the  dead. 

He  paused  to  linger  there  and,  yearning,   gazed 
In  dear  expectancy  of  that  lone  quest: 
How  speedily  with  wide  acquaintance  blest 
He  would  return  to  find  a  world  amazed 
At  the  new  wonder-tale  of  Truth  he  brought 
From  that  dim  region  where  no  hand  had  wrought. 

103 


GEORGE  NORTON  NORTHROP 

II 

But  as  he  leaned  far  out  above  the  vale 
And  brushed  the  dew  of  gladness  from  his  eyes 
He  heard  beseeching  words  and  wistful  cries 
Whence  he  had  come,  borne  feebly  on  the  gale, — 
A  voice  of  human  need:  he  could  not  fail 
To  feel  its  lonely  pain,  its  sad  surmise 
And  all  the  vague  bewilderments  that  rise 
To  terrify  the  helpless  and  the  frail. 

The  dire  entreaty  of  that  nameless  woe 
Changed  the  fair  scene  unto  an  ashen  shore: 
A  charnel-house  he  saw,  of  waste  and  bones 
Where  golden  sands  and  flowers  had  been  before. 
Turning  he  sought  the  homeward  way  below. 
Sighed  not,  nor  wept,  nor  knew  the  bruising  stones. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 
120.  This  Day  in  Spring 

NOW  I  am  minded  of  the  works  of  Him — 
His  mountains,  each  in  separate  pattern  cast; 
His  gracious  plains  and  prairie-spaces  vast. 
Like  'lumined  manuscripts  age  may  not  dim; 
His  hushless  winds,  like  singing  seraphim. 
Or  like  loud  organs  in  cathedrals  played ; 
His  seas  stupendous;  and  His  skies  arrayed; 
And  all  the  wonders  wove  of  His  high  whim — 
I  marvel  in  my  heart — nay,  not  that  He 

Could  mould  such  might  of  nothing  in  an  hour. 
And  fling  for  us  the  sweet  flags  of  the  shower — 
But  that — and  'tis  for  it,  on  reverent  knee. 

This  day  in  spring  my  lips  with  prayer  I  fret — 
He  still  found  time  to  make  a  violet ! 

104 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 
121.  Youth 


w 


HEN  life  has  done  with  laughter  and  singing. 

And  love's  no  more  in  rhyme. 
And  the  world  goes  dull  in  my  old  ears  ringing. 
And  slow  my  feet  with  time. 

Then  my  good  gray  soul  may  go  seeking  and  flying 

On  high  from  roads  of  earth, 
When  my  heart  gives  over  its  laughter  and  crying, 

Its  passion  and  pain  and  mirth ! 

But  now  my  heart  beats  merrily  wild, 

My  feet  would  dance  their  fill, 
And  the  heaviest  prayers  that  the  white  saints  piled 

Could  never  have  kept  them  still — 

When  I  am  old  and  quiet  and  gray 

There's  time  to  be  hushed  and  bow — 

I  may  have  a  soul  in  that  dim  day. 
But  oh,  not  now — not  now! 


SARA  TEASDALE 
122.  Spring  in  War-Time 


I 


FEEL  the  spring  far  oflP,  far  off, 

The  faint,  far  scent  of  bud  and  leaf — 
Oh  how  can  spring  take  heart  to  come 
To  a  world  in  grief, 
Deep   grief? 

The  sun  turns  north,  the  days  grow  long. 
Later  the  evening  star  grows  bright — 

How  can  the  daylight  linger  on 
For  men  to  fight. 
Still  fight? 

105 


SARA  TEASD ALE 

The  grass  is  waking  in  the  ground, 
Soon  it  will  rise  and  blow  in  waves — 

How  can  it  have  the  heart  to  sway- 
Over  the  graves, 
New  graves? 

Under  the  boughs  where  lovers  walked 
The  apple-bloonas  will  shed  their  breath- 

But  what  of  all  the  lovers  now 
Parted  by  Death, 
Gray  Death? 


MADISON  CAWEIN 
123.  The  Old  Dreamer 

COME,  let's  climb  into  our  attic, 
In  our  house  that's  old  and  gray! 
Heart,  you're  poor  and  I'm  rheumatic, 
.    And — it's  close  of  day. 

Lay  aside  your  rags  and  tatters. 
Shirts  and  shoes,  so  soiled  with  clay ! 
They're  no  use  now.     Nothing  matters — 
It  is  close  of  day. 

Let's  to  bed.    It's  cold.    No  fire. 
And  no  lamp  to  make  a  ray. 
Where's  our  servant.  Young  Desire? — 
Gone  at  close  of  day! 

Oft  she  served  us  with  fine  glances. 
Helped  us  out  at  work  and  play: 
She  is  gone  now.     Better  chances. 
And — it's  close  of  day. 
106 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

Where  is  Hope,  who  flaunted  scarlet? 
Hope,  who  led  us  oft  astray: 
Has  she  proved  herself  a  harlot 
At  the  close  of  day? 

What's  become  of  Dream  and  Vision? — 
Friends  we  thought  were  here  to  stay: 
Has  Life  clapped  the  two  in  prison 
At  the  close  of  day? 

They  are  gone;  and  how  we  miss  them! 
They  who  made  our  garret  gay: 
How  we  used  to  hug  and  kiss  them ! — 
But — 'tis  close  of  day. 

Where's  friend  Love  now? — ^Who  supposes ?- 
Has  he  flung  himself  away? 
Left  us  for  a  wreath  of  roses 
At  the  close  of  day? 

And  Where's  Song,-  the  soul-elected  ? — 
Has  he  quit  us  too  for  aye? 
Was  it  poverty  he  suspected 
Near  the  close  of  day? 

How  our  attic  rang  their  laughter! 
How  it  echoed  laugh  and  lay! 
None  can  take  their  place  hereafter ! — 
It  is  close  of  day. 

We  have  done  the  best  we  could  do: 
Come,  let's  kneel  a  while  and  pray. 
Now  no  matter  what  we  would  do, 
It  is  close  of  day. 

Let's  to  bed  then ! — it's  December : 
Long  enough  since  it  was  May ! 
Let's   forget  it; — and  remember 
Now  'tis  close  of  day, 

107 


MADISON  CAWEIN 
124.  On  the  Road 

1ET  us  bid  the  world  good-by! 
J  Now,  while  sun  and  cloud's  above  us, 
While  we've  nothing  to  deny. 
Nothing  but  ourselves  to  love  us: 
Let  us  fancy,  I  and  you. 
All  the  dreams  we  dreamed  came  true. 

We  have  gone  but  half  the  road, — 
Rugged  road  of  root  and  bowlder; 
Made  the  best  of  life's  dark  load, 
Cares,  that  helped  us  to  grow  older: 
We,  my  dear,  have  done  our  best — 
Let  us  stop  awhile  and  rest. 

Let  us  by  this  halfway  stile 
Put  away  the  world's  desire. 
And  sit  down,  a  little  while. 
With  our  hearts,  and  light  a  fire: 
Sing  the  songs  that  once  we  sung 
In  the  days  when  we  were  young. 

Haply  they  will  bring  again. 
From  the  lands  of  song  and  story. 
To  our  sides  the  elfin  train 
Of  the  dreams  we  dreamed  of  glory. 
That  are  one  now  with  the  crew 
Of  the  deeds  we  did  not  do. 

Here  upon  the  road  of  life 
Let  us  rest  us;  take  our  pleasure; 
Free  from  care  and  safe  from  strife, 
View  again  our  only  treasure — 
Love,  that  helped  us  on  our  way, 
Our  companion  night  and  day. 


JAMES  LEROY  STOCKTON 
125.  The  Admonition  of  the  Hills 

A  HILL  said  to  another  hill, 
"This  is  my  valley  that  lies  between  us"; 
But  the  other  hill  was  vexed. 
"No,"  it  said,  "it  is  my  valley"; 
And  the  hills  disputed  and  became  more  angry; 
And  dark  storm-clouds  gathered  above  them; 
And  the  storm  broke, 
And  shrieked  about  the  crags, 
And  descended  into  the  valley. 
And  laid  it  waste. 

Then  the  God  of  the  hills— 

Who  is  your  God  and  my  God — 

Reached  out  and  took  one  of  the  hills  in  the  hollow 

of  His  hand. 
And  He  put  it  behind  His  back. 
Then  He  whispered  to  the  hill  that  was  left, 
"Behold  thee  now  thy  valley"; 
And  the  hill  looked  and  the  valley  was  not. 

Then  God  said  to  the  hill  at  His  back, 
"Look  thou  now  down  upon  thy  valley"; 
And  the  hill  looked  and  the  valley  was  not. 

And  God  returned  the  hill  to  its  ancient  place, 
And,  behold,  the  valley  was  there  again. 

And  God  was  silent; 

For  He  knew  that  the  hills  knew 

What  He  would  have  said; 

But  the  hills  did  not  know  whether  God  Himself 

Could  remove  the  scar  of  the  storm  which  the 

quarrel  had  brought 
To  shriek  about  the  crags. 
And  to  descend  into  the  valley. 
And  to  lay  it  waste. 

109 


WITTER  BYNNER 
126.  Ta  a  Phoebe-Bird 

UNDER  the  eaves,  out  of  the  wet. 
You  nest  within  my  reach; 
You  never  sing  for  me  and  yet 
You  have  a  golden  speech. 

You  sit  and  quirk  a  rapid  tail. 

Wrinkle  a  ragged  crest. 
Then  pirouette  from  tree  to  rail 

And  vault  from  rail  to  nest. 

And  when  in  frequent,  witty  fright 
You  grayly  slip  and  fade, 

And  when  at  hand  you  re-alight 
Demure  and  unafraid, 

And  when  you  bring  your  brood  its  fill 

Of  iridescent  wings 
And  green  legs  dewy  in  your  bill, 

Your  silence  is  what  sings. 

Not  of  a  feather  that  enjoys 
To  prate  or  praise  or  preach, 

O  Phoebe,  with  your  lack  of  noise. 
What  eloquence  you  teach! 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 
127.  In    War-Time 

(An  American  homeward  bound) 

FURTHER  and  further  we  leave  the  scene 
Of  war — and  Of  England's  care; 
I  try  to  keep  my  mind  serene, — 
But  my  heart  stays  there; 

110 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

For  a  distant  song  of  pain  and  wrong 
My  spirit  doth  deep  confuse, 

And  I  sit  all  day  on  the  deck,  and  long— 
And  long  for  news! 

I  seem  to  see  them  in  battle-line — ' 

Heroes  with  hearts  of  gold, 
But  of  their  victory  a  sign 

The  Fates  withhold; 

And  the  hours  too  tardy-footed  pass, 
The  voiceless  hush  grows  dense 

Mid  the  imaginings,  alas! 
That  feed  suspense. 

Oh,  might  I  lie  on  the  wind,  or  fly 
In  the  willful  sea-bird's  track. 

Would  I  hurry  on,  with  a  homesick  cry, — 
Or  hasten  back? 


ANNA  BLANCHE  McGILL 
128.  The  Eternal  Builder 

ONCE  on  such  an  eve  as  this  is, 
Once   in  just  such  golden   air. 
Tyre  and  Troy  and  Babylon 
Soared  triumphantly  and  fair. 

Tyre  so  fallen,  Troy  turned  ashes, 
Babylon  superb  no  more, — 
Splendors  dead,  alas,  the  sundowns 
Burnished  wondrously  of  yore. 

Ah,  but  still  immortal  Beauty 
Seeks  new  cities  to  illume, — 
Lo,  on  yonder  roofs  and  casements 
How  her  gold  flame-roses  bloom! 


ANNA  BLANCHE  McGILL 

What  if  all  this  rose  and  amber 
Vanish  when  the  genie  Night 
With  his  dread  gaze  scowls  upon  them 
From  his  ancient  Eastern  height? 

Still  on  such  a  golden  evening, 
When  each  turret,  wall  and  spire 
Glows  as  if  no  mortal  builder 
Tipped  and  veined  its  stones  with  fire,- 

Still  on  such  an  eve  as  this  is 
Will  the  olden  dream  remain — 
That  however  men's  cities  perish 
Beauty  still  will  build  again. 

Fashioned  of  her  dreams  eternal, 
Who  knows  what  fair  towns  arise, 
Lifting  now  immortal  columns 
'Neath  what  other  evening  skies? 

Nay,  on  such  a  golden  evening, 
More  than  fanciful  desire 
Seems  it  that  earth's  mortal  builders 
Deathless  Beauty  may  inspire: 

May  some  day  so  take  their  spirits, 
Hands  and  brain  may  so  enthrall. 
As  some  perfect  grace  infuses 
Column,  spandril,  arch  and  wall, 

Till  on  such  a  golden  evening. 
None  shall  sigh  to  look  upon 
Fair  new  cities  and  remember 
Tyre  and  Troy  and  Babylon. 


STEWART  WELLS 
129.  The  Silent  Army 

ACROSS  the  wind-swept  winter  sky 
The  great  gray  clouds  go  driving  by. 
A  great  gray  host  sweeps  overhead, 
Rank  upon  rank  with  measured  tread — 
The  Silent  Army  of  the  Dead. 

Upon  the  shattered,  shell-torn  town. 
This  voiceless  multitude  looks  down. 
Over  the  sodden,  blood-drenched  plain 
These  grim  battalions  march  again — 
The  Deathless  Legion  of  the  Slain. 

Born  on  the  wailing  wind  there  comes 
The  muffled  throb  of  phantom  drums, 
And  those  who  maimed  and  mangled  lie 
Hear  the  dread  summons  from  on  high — 
The  call  to  men  about  to  die. 

A  call  to  men  about  to  die — 
The  wounded  soldier's  glazing  eye 
Beholds  the  grisly  column  wait. 
Reads  the  great  lesson  all  too  late — 
The  needless  tragedy  of  hate. 

His  weary,  war-worn  soul  he  flings 
To  join  the  Host  of  Homeless  Things, 
The  ever-moving,  restless  train. 
The  Deathless  Legion  of  the  Slain, 
The  souls  of  men  who  died  in  vain. 

No  land  is  theirs,  no  flag  they  know, — 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  friend  and  foe. 
Ever  their  swelling  ranks  increase, 
Never  their  groping  quest  shall  cease, 
The  hopeless  striving  after  Peace. 


STEWART  WELLS 

Onward  through  ages  yet  to  be, 
Onward  still  to  Eternity, 
Leaderless,  purposeless,  helpless,  blind, 
Seeking  the  goal  they  shall  never  find — 
Paying  the  debt  of  humankind. 

Across  the  wind-swept  winter  sky, 
The  great  gray  clouds  go  driving  by. 
A  great  gray  host  sweeps  overhead, 
Rank  upon  rank  with  measured  tread — 
The  Silent  Army  of  the  Dead. 


GRACE  HODSDON  BOUTELLE 

130.  Spring  at  the  British  Museum 

THE  wind  is  sweet  with  hovering  rain, 
In  slanting  golden  showers 
The  sunbeams  blow, — what  spells  invade 
This  Hall  of  Silent  Hours? 
Fresh,  wandering  scents  have  dared  their  way 
Past  guards  and  barricade. 
With  shy  insistence  drift  and  stray. 
Among  the  books  make  holiday 
And  will  not  be  gainsaid; 

It  almost  seems  they  set  me  free 

To  go  where  I  would  fain 

Walk  hand  in  hand  with  Spring  and  be 

In  Warwickshire  again. 

114 


GRACE  HODSDON  BOUTELLE 

There  in  the  quickening  time  of  the  year 

Broad  upland  fields  lie  fair 

In  rippling  green  against  the  sky, 

And  all  the  limpid  air 

Is  vibrant  with  a  winged  delight; 

There  beckoning  lanes  flit  by. 

Still,  sun-bathed  pastures,  streams  as  bright 

As  molten  amber,  orchards  white 

Where  bees  hum  jocundly.   .    .    . 

Yea,  Master-Poet,  we  seek  in  vain 
Who  trace  and  question  here, — 
You  roam  the  fields,  a  boy  again. 
With  Spring  in  Warwickshire. 


RICHARD  BURTON 

131.  Desolated   Gardens 

THE  trampling  armies  leave  discomfited 
How  many  a  garden !    Desolate  and  dead 
The  shining  flowers  whose  soul  breathed  up 
to  God 
In  winsome  odors  from  the  quiet  sod. 

Where  the  rose  laughed,  the  dark  ensanguined  mire. 
And  where  the  birds  in  many  a  leafy  choir 
Greeted  the  sun,  the  cannon  and  the  shell 
Have  changed  an  Eden  to  a  shrieking  hell. 

No  lilies  left  that  erst  rose  tall  and  white 
Nor  tulips  proud  ablow,  nor  that  fair  sight. 
The  pansies  of  the  many-winking  eyes; 
Ah,  blight  for  bloom  and  rain  for  tranquil  skies ! 

115 


RICHARD  BURTON 

Of  old,  how  often  lovers  kept  a  tryst 

In  such  sweet  haunts,  how  tenderly  they  kissed; 

But  love  is  now  turned  hate,  the  very  grass 

Is  color-changed  with  blood  of  those  who  pass. 

Lovers  and  birds  alike  have  fled  the  place. 
The  writhen  body  and  the  upturned  face 
Know  naught  of  love  or  song  or  carefree  hours 
That  blessed  the  alleys  of  these  blameless  flowers. 

O  refuges  so  rifled  and  so  dim 
Of  color,  what  to  you  the  martial  hymn ! 
How  sweet  ye  were  where  now  the  battle  raves, 
O  desolated  gardens,  with  your  graves! 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 
132.  The  Old  Hunter 

(A  rune  of  forever  and  ever) 

THE  quarry  is  caught,  the  game-bag  filled. 
And  the  meal  is  eaten  too; 
The  fire  grows  pale  and  the  coals  are  spilled, 
And  what  shall  the  hunter  do? 

The  hunter  shall  lie  where  the  game  was  caught. 

Stiff  heel  and  sinking  chin; 
The  hunter  shall  rest  with  the  meal  he  brought. 

In  Mother  Earth's  good  inn. 

And  the  rest  shall  weep  while  the  embers  fade, 

Till  the  last  fine  fire  is  gone. 
And  if  they  be  strong,  and  unafraid, 

Hope  for  another  dawn ! 

116 


BADGER  CLARK 

133.  The  Medicine  Man 

"npHE  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd, 
J[  The  prairie  rotten  with  rain, 

And  look !  the  wings  of  the  thunder  bird 
Blacken  the  hills  again. 
A  medicine  man  the  gods  may  balk — 
Go  fight  for  us  with  the  thunder  hawk!" 

,The  medicine  man  flung  out  his  arms. 

"I  am  weary  of  woman  talk 
And  cook-fire  witching  and  childish  charms. 

I  fight  you  the  thunder  hawk!" 
So  he  took  his  arrows  and  climbed  the  butte 
While  the  warriors  watched  him,  scared  and  mute. 

A  wind  from  the  wings  began  to  blow 

And  arrows  of  rain  to  shoot 
As  the  medicine  man  raised  high  his  bow, 

Standing  alone  on  the  butte. 
And  the  day  went  dark  to  the  cowering  band 
As  the  arrow  leaped  from  his  steady  hand. 

For  the  thunder  hawk  swooped  down  to  fight, 
And  who  in  his  way  could  stand? 

The  flash  of  his  eye  was  blinding  bright 
And  his  wing-clap  stunned  the  land. 

The  braves  yelled  terror  and  loosed  the  rein 

And  scattered  far  on  the  drowning  plain. 

And  after  the  thunder  hawk  swept  by 
They  found  him,  scorched  and  slain, 

Yet — fighting  with  gods,  who  fears  to  die? — 
He  smiled  with  a  light  disdain. 

That  smile  was  a  glory  to  all  his  clan 

But  none  dared  touch  the  medicine  man. 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 
134.  Art  and  War 

WAR  has  its  field  of  blood — heart-breaking  war — 
Wherein  to  rule  with  undisputed  sway 
Throughout   its    own    mad,    self-exhausting 
day. 
There,  where  it  rashly  sacrifices  more 
Than  laboring  Time  may  ever  quite  restore. 
Shall  it,  amid  red  welter  and  decay. 
Strive  horribly;  but  let  it  not  essay 
To  enter  where  peace  guards  the  future's  door ! 

War  has  nor  right,  nor  privilege,  nor  part 
In  lives  high-dedicate  the  world  to  bind 

Through  love  and  hope  and  the  great  dream  of  art ! 
All  lands  to  such  are  Fatherland:  they  find 

In  alien  realms  love's  grateful,  welcoming  heart — 
They,  chosen  of  the  Gods  to  bless  mankind! 


WITTER  BYNNER 

135.  Heart's  Content 

A  TOWN  called  Heart's  Content   .    , 
I  take  the  book  and  read  again 
Of  farmers  and  of  fishermen, 
A  distant  town  called  Heart's  Content. 

Vessels  are  built  there  now  and  then. 
And  there  a  cable  from  the  sea 
Brings  the  wide  world  within  the  ken 
Of  Newfoundland  simplicity. 

118 


WITTER  BYNNER 

Oh,  are  they  happier  than  we 
With  our  unceasing  incident 
Of  competition  and  degree? 
And  is  the  year  a  glad  event  ? 

Or  does  their  memory  now  frequent 
A  day  when  some  one  came  to  find 
His  hope  and  left  the  world  behind?  . 
The  town  of  Heart's  Content ! 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 

136.  Springtime — By  an  Outsider 

THE  little  brown  lads  are  flying  kites 
On  the  hilltops  in  the  sun; 
They  gladly  laugh  and  strongly  pull, 
And  far  and  fast  they  run; 
And  the  little  fresh  lassies  toss  their  jacks  . 

On  a  pavement  cool  and  gray; 
My  heart  must  drink  a  mingled  draught 
In  watching  them  at  play.  .   .   . 

The  little  brown  lads  are  playing  ball 
And  their  arms  are  firm  and  round; 

Their  eyes  are  bright  and  the  bare  feet  light 
As  they  flash  along  the  ground ; 

And  the  little  fresh  lassies  jumping  rope — 
They  have  caught  the  heart  of  me 

With  their  "Sugar,  pepper,  mustard,  salt, 
.    And  vin-e-gar-in-e-gar-ee !" 

119 


MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 

The  little  brown  lads  are  spinning  tops 

While  the  springtime  smiles  in  joy; 
Who  would  not  give  spring's  sunniest  day 

To  the  love  of  one  small  boy? 
And  the  little  fresh  lassies  dress  their  dolls 

In  the  shade  of  maple  trees; 
They  rock  them  soft,  as  I  would  rock 

My  baby  on  my  knees.   .    .   . 

The  little  brown  lads  are  flying  kites 

Where  the  sloping  hilltops  shine; 
O  dear  green  hills,  share  this  with  me, 

For  none  of  them  are  mine ! 
And  the  little  fresh  lassies  toss  their  jacks 

On  the  pavement  cool  and  gray — 
O  city  streets,  share  this  with  me. 

For  I  am  alone  all  dav! 


ODELL  SHEPARD 

137.  The  Adventurer 

HE  did  not  come  in  the  red  dawn, 
He  did  not  come  at  noon, 
And  all  the  long  bright  highway 
Lay  lonely  to  the  moon. 

And  never  more,  we  know  now. 
Will  he  come  wandering  down 

The  breezy  hollows  of  the  hills 
Into  the  quiet  town. 

For  he  has  heard  a  voice  cry 

A  starry- faint  "Ahoy!" 
Far  up  the  wind,  and  followed 

Unquestioning  after  joy. 


ODELL  SHEPARD 

But  we  are  long  forgetting 

The  quiet  way  he  went, 
With  looks  of  love  and  gentle  scorn 

So  sweetly,  subtly  blent. 

We  cannot  cease  to  wonder, 
We  two  who  loved  him,  how 

He  fares  along  the  windy  ways 
His  feet  must  travel  now. 

But  we  must  draw  the  curtain 
And  fasten  bolts  and  bars 

And  talk,  here  in  the  firelight. 
Of  him  beneath  the  stars. 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 
138.  The  Dance  in  the  Steerage 

THE  lights  are  dim  on  the  steerage  deck, 
But  the  stars  are  big  and  nigh. 
And  a  white  wave  flashes  by  the  rail 
Whenever  the  deck  goes  high. 

They  have  cleared  a  space  among  the  ropes 

Enough  to  spin  a  top. 
And  there  the  cook  and  a  mother  of  nine 

Spin  round  with  never  a  stop, — 

Spin  like  a  top,  spin  like  a  ball. 

Spin  like  a  humming  wheel. 
Spin  like  a  world  upon  its  poles 

On  tireless  toe  and  heel. 

And  what's  the  tune  to  which  they  spin? 

Accordion,  fiddle,  flute? 
Tune  of  the  white  wave,  tune  of  the  stars. 

Tune  of  the  great  souls  mute? 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

Never  a  word  and  never  a  smile 
And  never  a  glance  they  drop, 

Never  a  pause  to  scrape  and  bow, 
But  round  and  round  like  a  top. 

Never  a  glance  and  never  a  word 
And  never  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

While  stars  go  marching  down  the  west 
And  waves  wash  mile  on  mile. 

And  is  it  love?     And  is  it  prayer? 

And  is  it  childish  glee? 
It  is  the  craving  of  the  world 

And  that  which  had  to  be. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

139.  Death,  the  Lover 

WHEN  no  one  else  will  come,  and  Evening  draws 
His  robe  of  restful  velvet  close  about; 
And  stilled  unto  a  whisper  is  the  shout 
Of  children;  and  a  kind  of  quiet  awes 
The  very  voice  of  Memory,  because 
There  is  no  longer  need  of  anything 
That  Memory  can  give;  and  fingers  cling 
To  passionless  pure  fingers;  'mid  the  pause, 
Ofttimes  a  scarce-expected  step  is  heard; 
And,  in  the  heart,  a  hand  upon  the  knob. 
That  sets  the  breast  expectantly  athrob; 
And,  out  of  silence,  languageless,  a  word. 

Oh !  then  the  soul  may  know  her  mate  is  found. 
And  rise  and  smile  and  make  a  joyful  sound. 

122 


HERBERT  CROMBIE  HOWE 
140.  As  m  a  Belfry 

AS  in  a  belfry  let  me  live, 
^  High  above  the  toiling  town, 
Looking  down 
From  the  enchanted  sunset  gold. 
To  behold 

The  dusking  roofs,  and  lights  that  glimmer, 
Where  the  wet  streets  shimmer. 
And  the  lit  shop-windows  shine, 
In  a  line. 

As  in  a  belfry  let  me  live. 

Over  the  hum  of  the  human  hive, 

And  still  alive 

With  the  thrill  that  shot  it  up. 

Like  a  tall  white  lily  cup. 

Out  of  throbbing  love  and  pain. 

That,  not  in  vain, 

It  might  look  across  the  years. 

With  wide  eyes 

Undimmed  by  tears. 

Serene  and  wise. 

As  in  a  belfry  let  me  live — 

Let  the  doves  about  me  flutter. 

While  my  bells  utter 

Each  dear  hour,  from  morning's  light. 

Through   the   solemn,  marching   night, 

That,  far  below. 

Men  may  know 

They  may  trust  their  sentinel, 

They  may  hear  his  friendly  bell 

Their  moments  tell 

To  heaven's  ear. 

Leaning  near. 

123 


HERBERT  CROMBIE  HOWE 

Blow,  then,  winds,  and  dash  the  rain, 

Stars  scurry  through  the  clouds,  till  sun- 
light comes  again. 

Love  lift  me,  sorrow  search  me,  but  this 
guerdon  give, — 

As  in  a  belfry  let  me  live ! 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 
141.  The  Whisper  of  the  Sands 


N 


IGHT,  and  the  golden  glory  of  the  moon 

Above  the  undulant  sweep  of  desert  lands. 
And  borne  o'er  dusky  dale  and  shimmering 
dune 
The  whisper  of  the  sands ! 


Faint  as  the  faintest  ripple  on  the  shore 
Of  Nile  that  holds  its  enigmatic  spell; 

Faint  as  the  dawn-wind  where  tall  palm-trees  soar, 
Or  murmur  in  a  shell! 

Faint  and  inscrutable,  freighted  with  the  breath 

Of  ages  that  have  long,  long  ceased  to  be; 
Weighted  with  mysteries  of  birth  and  death. 
Time  and  eternity ! 

And  so  I  linger  till  the  night  grows  old 

And  the  rose-blossom  of  the  morn  expands. 

And  hear  these  ceaseless  marvels  manifold, — 
The  whisper  of  the  sands ! 

124 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 
142.      Tell  England  Here  We  Lie  Content 

(This    epitaph    was    found    roughly    inscribed    on    the 
grave  of  some  English  soldiers.) 

WHAT  paean,  what  victorious  cry. 
By  which  the  molten  sky  is  rent, 
Can  with  this  silent  message  vie, 
*'Tell  England  here  we  lie  content"? 

Not  theirs  the  medal  or  the  clasp, 
Not  theirs  the  bannered  monument; 
•  Ah,  not  for  these  the  wreath  to  grasp ! 

But  in  the  waste  to  lie  content. 

And  from  the  wandering  wave  as  well. 
From  sailor  as  from  soldier  spent. 
Still  comes  that  sweet  but  stern  farewell: 
"Tell  England  here  we  lie  content." 

From  coral  deep,  from  utmost  shore. 
One  voice  ascends,  but  no  lament. 
From  English  dead  the  wide  world  o'er, 
"Tell  England  here  we  lie  content." 

This  is  the  language,  this  the  tongue, 
That  holds  or  sea  or  continent. 
Stronger  than  any  song  yet  sung: 
"Tell  England  here  we  lie  content." 


JAMES  B.  KENYON 

143.  A   Quaker  Maid 

SHE  sits  beneath  the  trellised  vine, 
Beside  the  open  door; 
AVarm  arabesques  of  sunlight  shine 
Along  the  chequered  floor. 


JAMES  B.  KENYON 

Her  busy  needles  wink  and  glance 

As  still  her  task  she  plies; 
By  bordered  walks  the  midges  dance; 

Above,  the  swallow  flies. 

Her  face  is  calm;  her  eyes  are  meek; 

About  her  smooth  young  throat, 
And  lightly  blown  o'er  either  cheek, 

The  silken  tendrils  float. 

Beneath  the  snow-white  kerchief  spread 

Across  her  placid  breast, 
Unvexed  by  change  or  darkling  dread. 

Her  spirit  lies  at  rest. 

Peace  is  her  world;  no  thought  of  ill, 

Nor  breath  of  sordid  strife. 
E'er  taints  the  pure  desires  that  fill 

Her  cool  hushed  round  of  life. 

Afar  the  city  roars;  there  sweeps 
The  long  white  way  that  gleams 

For  other  feet;  she  sits  and  keeps 
Alone  her  quiet  dreams. 


WILLIAM  C.  EDGAR 

144.  The  Flag  in  Belgium 

WE  stood  on  Belgium's  tortured  soil, 
War-scarred  it  was — blood  red. 
While  Hunger  stalked  the  smitten  land 
And  widows  mourned  their  dead; 
And  there  was  nowhere  sign  of  hope. 

And  nowhere  help  was  nigh, 
Save  in  that  spot  where  flew  our  flag, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  on  high. 


WILLIAM  C.  EDGAR 

Beneath  it,  safe  protected,  lay 

The  food  by  Pity  sent. 
And  where  it  waved,  Compassion  stood 

With  succor  for  the  spent. 
The  little  children  blessed  the  flag, 

And  women  kissed  its  bars, 
And  men  looked  up,  again  with  hope 

To  gaze  upon  its  stars. 

Go,  trace  its  glories  to  their  source 

In  fights  by  land  or  sea. 
And  tell  of  all  that  made  this  flag 

The  emblem  of  the  free, 
But  nobler  fight  was  never  waged 

Nor  higher  honour  gained 
Than  when,  in  Belgium,  hunger-swept, 

God's  mercv  it  maintained. 


CHARLES  T.  RYDER 

145.  Not   Without  Hope 


N 


OT  without  hope  nor  vainly  have  we  sought, 

Although  no  morning  star,  no  gleam  of  dawn 
Illumine  the  stupendous  night  of  thought 
Where  the  dear  dead  are  gone: 


Their  bright  embodied  lives  wholly  depart: 
The  well-loved  reassuring  hand  at  meeting, 

The  spoken  music  of  the  friendly  heart. 
The  good,  quick  smile  of  greeting. 


CHARLES  T.  RYDER 

This  is  our  sorrow.    But  the  generous  soul, 

The  proud  and  passionate  striving  after  good, 

The  honest  human  kindness  toward  earth's  whole 
Perplexed  sad  brotherhood, 

These  shall  not  perish,  if  with  hearts  made  sound 
We  labor  on,  their  labor  to  complete; 

Their  goal  of  immortality  is  found. 
Their  death  is  not  defeat. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

146.  Ulysses  in  Ithaca 

ITHACA,  Ithaca,  the  land  of  my  desire! 
I'm  home  again  in  Ithaca,  beside  my  own  hearthfire. 
Sweet  patient  eyes  have  welcomed  me,  all  tenderness 
and  truth. 
Wherein  I  see  kept  sacredly  the  visions  of  our  youth — 
Yet  sometimes,  even  as  I  hear  the  calm 
Deep  breathing  of  Penelope  at  rest 
Beside  me — cravingly  my  empty  palm 
Curves  to  the  memory  of  Calypso's  breast. 
Ah,  wild  immortal  mistress !    With  a  smile 
You  crowned  my  passion  as  a  goddess  can. 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  regain  your  isle — 
Nor  would  I  lose  remembrance,  being  man. 

128 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Ithaca,  Ithaca,  the  wind  among  the  trees, 

The  peasant  singing  at  his  toil,  the  murmuring  of  bees. 

The  minstrel  plucking  at  the  harp  when  cups  are  on  the 

board. 
The  measure  of  the  martial  dance,  the  rhythmic  shield 
and  sword — 

But  oh,  the  sword-song  broken  in  the  beat, 

The  sword-song  that  I  heard  by  Simois ! 

The  high  fierce  cry  of  battle's  crimson  heat — 

Whatever  else  I  hear,  I  lose  not  this. 

No,  nor  that  unimaginable  song 

When  through  my  straining  limbs  the  cord  cut  far. 

Pallas,  I  thank  thee  that  the  bonds  were  strong — 

Yet  was  the  siren's  music  worth  the  scar! 

Ithaca,  Ithaca,  and  peace  when  day  is  done; 

Life  like  a  weary  eagle  folding  wings  at  set  of  sun. 

The  round  of  homely  duties,  the  temperate  delight. 

The  simple  pleasure  of  the  day,  the  quiet  rest  at  night — 

But  I  have  known  the  thrill  of  danger's  face; 

Have  launched  my  spirit  as  a  spear  is  cast. 

The  world  and  hell  have  been  my  living-place, 

Who  choose  to  die  in  Ithaca  at  last. 

Odysseus  has  foregone  the  wanderer's  part — 

But,  mighty  Zeus !  how  good  it  is  to  know 

That  I  have  held  a  goddess  to  my  heart 

And  fought  heroic  giants,  long  ago! 


JOYCE  KILMER 

147.  Wealth 

FROM  what  old  ballad  or  from  what  rich  frame 
Did  you  descend  to  glorify  the  earth? 
Was  it  from  Chaucer's  singing-book  you  came? 
Or  did  Watteau's  small  brushes  give  you  birth? 

Nothing  more  exquisite  than  that  slim  hand 

Did  Raffael  or  Leonardo  trace. 
Nor  could  the  poets  learn  in  Fairyland 

To  write  the  lyric  wonder  of  your  face. 

I  would  possess  a  store  of  lovely  things 
But  I  am  poor  and  so  this  may  not  be: 

Yet  God,  who  lifts  the  poor  and  humbles  kings 
Sent  loveliness  itself  to  dwell  with  me. 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

148.  Christmas  Eve 

WOULD  Jesus  come  to  me,  Mither, 
The  morrow's  Christmas  morn, 
Wearin'  the  bonny  smile  he  had 
That  day  that  he  was  born, 
Around  his  head  a  wreath  o'  light, 
And  not  a  twig  o'  thorn, — 

I'd  open  wide  the  doore,  Mither, 
The  way  that  he'd  come  in; 

And  not  to  gi'  him  pain  at  all, 
I'd  keep  my  heart  from  sin; 

And  all  I  could  to  pleasure  him 
I'd  right  at  once  begin. 
130 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

Not  in  a  stall  should  he  be  laid, 

But  on  me  own  fine  bed; 
And  half  me  porridge,  wi'  me  own 

Small  spoon  should  he  be  fed, 
The  while  his  Mither  smiled,  and  shared 

Wi'  you  the  bit  o'  bread. 

'Twould  be  a  time  o'  joy,  Mither ! 

But  thinkin'  o'  they  things, 
'Tis  maybe  well  he  should  be  there, 

Wi'  ward  o'  angel-wings; 
I  doubt  they'd  miss  him  so! — the  kine. 

The  shepherds,  and  the  kings! 


RUTH  GUTHRIE  HARDING 
149.        0  Mary  in  Thy  Clear  Young  Eyes 

(A  Madonna  by  Dagnan-Bouveret) 

OMARY  in  thy  clear  young  eyes 
What  sorrow  came  at  His  first  cry? 
What  hint  of  how  He  was  to  die 
Disturbed  thee  in  that  calm  sunrise  .    .    . 
What  shadow  from  the  paling  sky 
Did  fall  across  thy  Paradise? 

Dreamed  thou  the  Garden  .    .   .  and  the  Tree? 
Knew  it  was  for  the  little  child 
Whose  lips  against  thy  warm  breast  smiled? 
So  sweet,  that  body  close  to  thee  .    .    . 
By  men's  rough  hands  to  be  defiled; 
So  frail  ...  yet  waiting  Calvary! 
*  *  * 

Ah,  once  I  too  lay  spent  and  wan, 
A  tiny  head  against  my  heart. 


RUTH  GUTHRIE  HARDING 

And  had  my  vision  of  the  part 
A  child  must  play  when  years  had  gone — 
And  then  I  felt  the  quick  tears  start, 
Remembering  Jesus  in  the  dawn. 

O  Mary,  mother  without  guile, 

We  mothers  with  the  stain  of  earth 

Marring  the  sanctity  of  birth, 

See  heaven  in  thy  baby's  smile, 

And,  sinning,  know  the  holy  worth 

Of  what  thou,  sinless,  dreamed  that  while. 


HENRY  ADAMS  BELLOWS 

150.  After  Sunset  in  the  Rockies 

QUIETNESS  everywhere: 
The  lake,  that  but  an  hour  since  was  tossed 
Into  a  make-believe  of  ocean  rage, 
Now  lies  beneath  the  eyes  of  heaven  in  calm. 
Inscrutable  peace.    It  has  a  loveliness 
Too  pure  for  motion. 

All  around,  the  peaks, 
That  in  full  day  spoke  terribly  of  strength 
And  storm  and  battle  and  of  victory. 
With  nightfall  put  their  rugged  armor  off. 
And  softly  they  draw  near,  and  kindliness 

Is  in  their  silence. 

Darker  it  grows. 
And  stars  pierce  through  the  infinite  depth  of  sky; 
The  colors  fade  and  vanish,  till  the  world — 
The  silent  lake,  the  cliffs  and  jagged  peaks. 
The  star-strewn  vault  above — all  join  together 

In  blended  darkness. 


HENRY  ADAMS  BELLOWS 

These  selfsame  crags 
But  now  were  resonant  with  Valkyr  shouts; 
The  flames  of  battle  played  round  yon  red  peak, 
And  through  the  air  the  cavalry  of  storm 
Drove  their  battalions,  while  the  howling  wind 

Sounded  the  charge. 

Peace  after  turmoil, 
A  peace  as  all-pervading  as  the  dark, 
That  purifies  the  heart  of  willfulness 
And  all  the  insignificance  of  care, 
Comes  softly  down  the  purple  mountain-slopes, 

The  gift  of  night. 

Nor  time  nor  space 
Can  dim  the  vision  of  that  silent  lake 
Charmed  out  of  madness,  and  those  gaunt,  scarred 

peaks 
Turned  by  night's  magic  into  loveliness, 
While  in  the  sky  the  stars  came  quietly. 

And  with  them  peace. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 
151.  A  Song  of  Living 

BECAUSE  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow 
to  die. 
I  have  sent  up  my  gladness  on  wings,  to  be  lost  in 
the  blue  of  the  sky. 
I   have  run  and  leaped  with  the  rain,  I   have  taken  the 

wind  to  my  breast. 
My  cheek  like  a  drowsy  child  to  the  face  of  the  earth  I 

have  pressed. 
Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to  die. 

133 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

I  have  kissed  young  Love  on  the  lips,  I  have  heard  his 

song  to  the  end. 
I  have  struck  my  hand  like  a  seal  in  the  loyal  hand  of 

a  friend. 
I  have  known  the  peace  of  heaven,  the  comfort  of  work 

done  well. 
I  have  longed  for  death  in  the  darkness  and  risen  alive 

out  of  hell. 
Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to  die. 

I  give  a  share  of  my  soul  to  the  world  where  my  course 

is  run. 
I  know  that  another  shall  finish  the  task  I  must  leave 

undone. 
I  know  that  no  flower,  no  flint  was  in  vain  on  the  path 

I  trod. 
As  one  looks  on  a  face  through  a  window,  through  life 

I  have  looked  on  God. 
Because  I  have  loved  life,  I  shall  have  no  sorrow  to  die. 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 
152.  Lynch  Law 

("Bloody   instructions   which,    being   taught,    return   to   plague 
the   inventor,") 

WHEN   they   ran  him   down   hill,   what   did   Moyer 
think? 
Down  the  hill  from  Hancock,  to  the  water's  brink, 
Down  the  hill  from  Hancock  to  put  him  on  the  train, 
A  bullet  in  his  back  and  riot  in  his  brain? 

Shades  of  Harry  Orchard!  was  he  haunted  then? 
Dynamite,  and  buckshot,  and  dynamite  again? 
Independence  depot,  the  horror  and  the  pain? 
Did  he  think  of  Cripple  Creek  and  of  Coeur  d'Alene? 

134 


JOSEPH  WARREN  BEACH 

Could  he  read  the  future,  how  it  followed  suit 
When  they  planted  powder  in  the  streets  of  Butte? 
When  the  rebel  miners  turned  upon  the  chief 
And  slipping  out  the  back  way,  he  vanished  like  a  thief? 

When  they  ran  him  down  hill,  what  did  Moyer  think? 
Did  he  hold  his  head  high,  or  did  he  cower  and  slink? 
Did  he  smile  to  greet  the  terrors  he  had  loosed: — 
"These  are  all  my  black-birds  coming  home  to  roost"? 


RUTH  GUTHRIE  HARDING 

153.  At  the  Old  Ladies'  Home 

THERE  in  a  row  of  chairs  upon  the  porch 
I  saw  them,  women  alien  from  the  world. 
Set  in  a  niche  to  watch  the  world  go  by : 
A  few,  born  saints  .   .    .  but  some  had  outworn  sin; 
Sisters  at  last,  from  having  done  with  life. 

Here  Joan  of  Arc,  grown  past  her  soldier-dream. 
And  Mariamne,  spared  her  Herod's  wrath. 
Forgetting  Herod,  gossiped  for  an  hour; 
While  calm  Francesca,  once  knowing  Paolo's  love, 
Sat  knitting  peaceful  in  the  noonday  sun. 
And  Nicolette,  with  Aucassin  long  gone. 
Made  painful  writing  with  a  wrinkled  hand. 

"Ah,  let  me  die,"  I  prayed,  "before  the  glow 
Shall  leave  my  body,  and  before  my  tears 
Shall  buy  me  patience;  take  me  while  I  feel 
The  lure-of-things  that  blesses  with  its  hurt — 
Dear  God,  give  me  not  age!"   (For  I  would  keep 
You  in  my  heart  of  hearts  .    .   .  for  whose  sad  eyes 
These  lines  are  set,  O  Dearest  ...  to  the  last.) 

135 


RUTH  GUTHRIE  HARDING 

Just  then,  among  the  many  faces  there, 
I  glimpsed  a  face  most  delicate  and  pale 
And  very  lovely  with  that  wistfulness 
In  which  the  shadows  of  long  sorrow  lie; 
Meeting  my  look,  she  smiled,  and,  with  that  smile. 
Somehow  the  lilacs  by  the  iron  fence, 
The  plumed  grass  brushing  low  across  the  path. 
Brought  back  to  me  an  afternoon  in  May 
And  a  sweet  garden  where  I  sometimes  played 
When  I  fared  forth  in  gingham  pinafore: 
I  saw  Another  (dead  so  many  years. 
Her  name  I  could  not  in  that  hour  recall) : 
Old  she  had  been  as  ashes  in  a  jar 
She  kept  upon  a  high,  old-fashioned  chest 
In  an  old-fashioned  room  in  her  still  house  .    .    . 
Now  I  remembered  with  what  passionate  warmth 
A  cheek  had  once  been  pressed  against  my  cheek. 
What  frail  and  trembling  arms  had  lifted  me 
To  touch  that  silvery  dust  within  the  jar. 

Perhaps  it  is  God's  will  I  shall  grow  old 

And  none  may  read  beneath  my  quietness   .    .    . 

Gardens  in  May,  or  any  memory 

Of  you!    And  yet  for  very  shame  tonight 

I  change  my  prayer,  and  ask  for  strength  to  live. 


THERESA  HELBURN 
154.  The  Aviator 

SWIFT  through  the  night  I  sped  on  vibrant  wing, 
The  hooded  death  beside  me  slumbering. 
And  in  my  heart  strange  passions  newly  born. 
Over  the  edge  of  night  slow  crept  the  morn, 
And  far  beneath  the  patterned  earth  lay  bare; 


THERESA  HELBURN 

Fallow  and  field  and  forest,  square  on  square, 

Tiny  and  tenantless,  while  overhead 

The  crimson,  sleepless  meadows  of  the  dead 

Had  sent  their  messenger.     Onward  I  flew 

Until  I  saw,  and  seeing,  slowly  knew 

The  gray  roof  where  the  singing  rails  converged. 

A  leaping  flame  of  exultation  surged ! 

The  black  death  woke  beneath  my  hand,  and  fell, 

A  sudden,  swift  ambassador  of  Hell, 

Straight  to  its  goal.     The  silence  cried  aloud 

In  agony,  so  shattered,  and  a  crowd 

Of  lesser  voices  answered  me  in  kind 

With  venomous  tongue.     Laughing,  upon  the  wind 

I  rose  .   .    . 

The  earth  fell  from  me  like  a  falling  stone. 

I  scaled  the  steep  cliff  of  the  sky,  and  stung 

The  swift  machine  to  madness!    Lo,  I  hung 

Motionless  in  a  world  where  nothing  moved ! 

Distance  was  not  and  time  had  ceased  to  be! 

Annihilated  by  eternity 

Man's  utmost  effort  failed !     My  startled  soul. 

Stripped  of  its  passions,  humbled,  and  made  whole, 

Drank  a  new  wisdom  from  that  endless  sea 

Of  silence,  and  I  trod  eternity, 

God's  equal,  and  God's  peace  within  my  heart ! 

Downward  at  last.    The  uprising  earth  again. 

The  eager  hands,  the  questionings  of  men. 

And  thunderous  praise  that  roused  no  answering  flame. 

The  deed  they  cheered,  it  was  not  mine  to  claim; 

Somewhere  beyond  that  farthest  rim  of  cloud 

The  doer  of  the  deed  had  found  his  shroud. 

And  the  green  crown  they  wreathed  about  my  head 

Was  but  a  funeral  token  for  one  dead. 

137 


TUDOR  JENKS 
155.  A  Portrait  by  Velasquez 

(The  portrait  speaks) 

"T3INALDO    DE    LA    MURCIA— never    mind    my 
XV  titles- 

Painted   by   Velasquez,   if   that's    the    fellow's 
name. 
It  took  a  dozen  sittings  at  least,  as  I  remember; 
As  many  wasted  trials  before  the  likeness  came. 

"Likeness,  did  I  call  it?    Well,    well,    there's    some    re- 
semblance ; 

The  chin's  too  sharp,  the  nose    too   thin,   the   eyes   a 
trifle  light; 

But  still,  it  has  distinction,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  told 
me. 

Though  Dona  Ysabel  insists  the  picture  is  a  fright. 

**I  paid  a  thousand  pieces  in  pity  for  the  craftsman — 

His    doublet    was    wofn  threadbare,    and    he    had    a 
hatchet  face. 

Such  creatures  should  be  pensioned   and  kept  to  paint 
our  portraits, 

For   all   posterity   should  know  the  men  of  mark  and 
race. 

"I  do  not  grudge  the  money,  though    it    cost    a    month's 
campaigning, 

We  took  the  castle,  burned  it,  and  carried  oflF  the  gold. 

It  may  be  that  this  old  daub   will   make   the   tale   more 
vivid 

When  to  my  children's  children  that  sharp  fray  shall 
be  told." 

*  *  m  * 

The  painted  lips  were  silent.    I  bent  to  scan  the  canvass. 

It  bore  a  date  I  could  n^t  read,  and  painter's  name 
alone. 

And  then  I  read  the  label:  "A  Portrait  by  Velasquez; 
Recently  discovered.    The  subject  is  unknown." 
138 


JAMES  B.  KENYON 
156.  Belated 


H 


ERE  through  years  she  dwelt  apart; 

Still  I  see  her,  as  of  old; 
Round  her  swallows  wheel  and  dart, 
Summer  spreads  its  cloth  of  gold. 


Droning  bees  in  dew-wet  flowers, 

Ploughmen  shouting  to  their  teams, 

Whisperings  of  fragrant  showers — 
All  are  mingled  with  her  dreams. 

Backward  roll  the  cloudy  years; 

Other  scenes  before  her  rise; 
Other  sounds  are  in  her  ears; 

Other  suns  climb  other  skies. 

She,  a  damsel  sore  distressed, 
From  her  ivied  casement  high 

Leans  with  dolor-stricken  breast. 
Watching  with  a  haggard  eye; 

Till,  through  mists  that  blur  her  sight, 
Pricking  o'er  the  wide  champaign. 

She  beholds  her  proud  young  knight 
Leading  up  his  bannered  train. 

And  she  knows  the  hour  is  near 

When,  beyond  that  prisoning  wall. 

She  shall  vanish  without  fear — 
Borne  afar,  love's  happy  thrall. 

Or,  through  fields  with  daisies  pied. 
Hooded  falcon  on  her  wrist. 

Slim  hound  frisking  at  her  side. 
Forth  she  fares  to  keep  her  tryst. 


JAMES  B.  KENYON 

There  where  immemorial  trees 

Lift  gnarled  boughs  to  sun  and  rain, 

Mid  bird-haunted  privacies, 

Lives  the  old  sweet  tale  again. 

Thus,  while  tongues  still  clashed  and  strove, 

And  joy  withered  at  a  breath. 
Her  unaging  spirit  wove 

Rainbows  o'er  the  gulfs  of  death. 

Gentle  dreamer!  soul  of  snow! 

Out  of  place  and  season  born. 
Hither  come — how,  none  may  know — 

Wandering  from  some  earlier  morn. 

Teach  us,  though  the  world  be  wide, 
And  life  miss  its  high  emprise, 

That  the  heart,  whate'er  betide. 
Still  may  find  its  Paradise. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 
157.  Vagabondage 

IO,  I  have  done  awhile  with  haste, 
^      With  weary  wendings  up  and  down; 

Freed  of  all  bonds  I  range  the  waste 
Beyond  the  turmoil  of  the  town. 

More  than  may  be  revealed  in  words 
I  joy  in  what  I  hear  and  see; 

I  know  the  fellowship  of  birds, 
And  I  am  kinsman  to  the  bee. 

As  fancy  moves  I  pause  or  pass; 

My  tarrying  is  long  or  brief; 
I  join  the  wind-song  to  the  grass. 

The  lyric  laughters  of  the  leaf. 

140 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

A  swaying  fern  my  thought  beguiles, 

A  ripple  as  it  cools  the  cress; 
A  wayside  flower  upon  me  smiles, 

And  I  am  wrapt  in  happiness. 

I  have  so  yearned  for  artless  things. 
Have  been  so  long  unreconciled, 

The  tiniest  gnat,  with  gauzy  wings, 
Transports  me  as  it  would  a  child. 

Withdrawn  from  stress,  apart  from  strife, 

To  loving  nature  I  respond. 
And  drain  the  deepest  draughts  of  life, 

A  vagrant  and  a  vagabond! 

ETHEL  TALBOT  SCHEFFAUER 
158.  The  Valiant  Dust 

SO  long  it  is  since  first  the  eddying  world 
Spun  for  itself  a  being;  ah,  since  then, 
Into  the  sterile  waste  of  darkness  hurled. 
Have  gone  to  dust  so  many  goodly  men. 

So  often  through  the  seasonal  wax  and  wane 

From  death  to  death  by  the  strange  gate  of  birth, 

Strong  men  have  slain  each  other  and  been  slain. 
And  given  their  body's  pride  to  the  gray  earth. 

Under  the  plough  there  is  not  any  clod, 

Cumbering  in  late  March  the  fruitful  ground. 

But  was  the  fleshly  raiment  of  a  god. 

Whom  the  earth  clips  within  its  narrow  bound. 

The  thin  house  dust  one  lightly  casts  aside 
Somehow  distils  the  strength  of  armored  men 

And  fragrance  of  all  beauty  that  has  died, — 
This  common  dust  that  rides  the  wind  again, — 

141 


ETHEL  TALBOT  SCHEFFAUER 

And  like  the  soul  that  there  inhabited, 

No  more  beholds  on  heights  far  off  the  gleam 

Where,  on  the  dim  innumerable  dead. 

Shines  down  the  years  the  imperishable  dream. 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 
159.  In  a  Garden 

WOMAN,  Woman,  idly  dreaming 
In  thy  sheltered  garden  sweet. 
Dost  thou  hear  the  mighty  music 
And  the  tread  of  marching  feet? 
'Tis  thy  Sisters  on  the  highway. 
Wide  their  banners  are  unfurled 
Flinging  out  an  eager  challenge, 
"Come  thou  forth  into  the  world  ?" 

Oh,  I  see  my  Sisters  marching, 
And  I  hear  their  onward  cry, 
And  my  spirit  leaps  to  greet  them 
As  they  pass  me  proudly  by; 
But  shall  no  one  tend  the  garden, 
Watch  its  miracles  unclose? 
Patient  wait  upon  the  lily 
To  consider  how  it  grows? 

Woman,  Woman,  art  thou  singing? 
Dost  not  know,  in  times  like  these, 
There  is  no  one  who  will  listen 
To  thy  simple  melodies? 
Hast  not  heard  the  distant  thunder. 
Hast  not  seen  the  pallid  things 
That  lie. helpless  neath  the  shadow 
Of  the  war-bird's  awful  wings? 

142 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

I  have  heard  the  cannon  roaring, 

I  have  seen  the  vultures  fly, 

Have  dreamed  of  moonlit  battle-fields 

Where  the  ghastly  dead  men  lie. 

And  I've  wakened  to  the  singing 

Of  the  skyward  speeding  lark, 

I  have  watched  the  flush  of  morning 

Creeping  slowly  o'er  the  dark. 

Should  the  wearied  God  of  Battles, 

Fleeing  from  conflicting  prayers, 

Walk  once  more  at  cool  of  evening 

In  a  garden  unawares. 

Should  He  find  there  some  one  singing, 

Happy  on  the  quiet  ground. 

Might  not  He  who  marks  the  sparrow 

Pause  to  listen  to  the  sound? 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

160.  And  If  You  Came 

AND  if  you  came? — Oh,  I  would  smile 
And  sit  quite  still  to  hide 
My  throat  that  something  clutched  the  while, 
My  heart  that  struck  my  side. 

And  you  would  hear  my  slow  words  fall 

(Men  do  not  know!)  and  say, 
"She  does  not  love  me  now  at  all," 

And  rise  and  go  away. 

And  I  would  watch,  as  quietly 

Your  footsteps  crossed  the  sill. 
The  whole  world  dying  out  from  me  .   .   . 

And  speak  on  smiling  still. 

143 


LOUISE  FOLEY  FINERTY 

161.  The  Grave 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  must  be  buried  deep, 
Let  it  not  be 

Beneath  commemorated  sod 
To  sleep  a  still  and  formal  sleep; 
But  in  the  green  untrammelled  sea, 
Or  in  some  mountain  place  untrod. 

There  will  the  things  that  I  have  loved  so  long 

Be  with  me  still, 

There  shall  1  keep  high  festival 

With  wind  and  wave,  and  hear  the  song 

Of  birds  that  haunt  the  spray  or  fill 

The  crags  with  clamour  and  fierce  call. 

Perhaps  tall  ships  will  sail  across  my  breast, 

Strong,  lovely  ships! 

Or,  mingled  with  the  salty  foam 

Blown  bright  along  the  evening  west, 

I'll  kiss  the  weather-beaten  lips 

Of  sailors  singing  to  be  home. 

Or  my  heart's  dust,  after  long  days  and  days, 

Will  be  made  one 

With  those  huge,  timeless  rocks  that  know 

The  mysteries  of  space,  and  raise 

Strange  pinnacles  of  ice  and  snow. 

Familiar  with  the  stars  and  sun. 

There  shall  I  know  again  the  loneliness 
That  did,  in  hours 
Of  close  commune  with  nature,  roll 
A  great  cool  tide  to  heal  and  bless 
And  change  to  unsuspected  powers 
The  scorching  passions  of  my  soul. 


SCUDDER  MIDDLETON 

162.  Children 

THOUGH  there  is  something  that  I  long  to  tell, 
I  do  not  often  stop  and  speak  to  them. 
For  when  I  do  it  is  an  awkward  phrase 
That  comes  self-conscious,  halting  to  my  lips — 
A  foolish  chatter  such  as  nurses  make, — 
And  they  grow  ill  at  ease  and  turn  away, 
Or  else  look  wide-eyed  up  at  me  and  smile. 
As  though  they  thought  it  fun  that  I,  so  big. 
Knew  not  the  secret  ways  of  little  words; 
And  this  is  strange  to  me,  for  once  I  spoke 
That  very  language  they  can  understand. 
I  think  I  learned  it  from  the  simple  flowers. 
Or  it  was  taught  me  by  the  quiet  stars, — 
But  now,  somehow,  I  have  forgotten  it. 
Somehow  have  lost  the  secret  of  it  all, — 
Now  I  am  silent  when  I  am  with  them. 
Though  there  is  something  that  I  long  to  say. 

BADGER  CLARK 

163.  The  Bad  Lands 

NO  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide; 
It  is  all  stark  red  and  gray. 
And  strewn  with  bones  that  had  lived  and  died 
Ere  the  first  man  saw  the  day. 
When  the  sharp  crests  dream  in  the  sunset  gleam. 

And  the  bat  through  the  canyon  veers, 
You  will  sometimes  catch,  if  you  listen  long. 
The  tones  of  the  Bad  Lands'  mystic  song, 
A  song  of  a  million  years. 

The  place  is  as  dry  as  a  crater  cup. 

Yet  you  hear,  as  the  stars  shine  free. 

From  the  barren  gulches  sounding  up, 
The  lap  of  a  spawning  sea. 


BADGER  CLARK 

A  breeze  that  cries  where  the  great  ferns  rise 

From  the  pools  on  a  new-made  shore, 
With  the  whip  and  whirr  of  batlike  wings, 
And  the  snarl  of  slimy,  fighting  things, 
And  the  tread  of  the  dinosaur. 

Then  the  sea  voice  ebbs  through  untold  morns. 

And  the  jungle  voices  reign, — 
The  hunting  howl  and  the  clash  of  horns. 

And  the  screech  of  rage  and  pain. 
Harsh  and  grim  is  the  old  earth  hymn 

In  that  far  brute  paradise, 
And  as  ages  drift  the  rough  strains  fall 
To  a  single  note  more  grim  than  all. 

The  crack  of  the  glacial  ice. 

So  the  song  runs  on,  with  shift  and  change. 
Through  the  years  that  have  no  name, 
And  the  late  notes  soar  to  a  higher  range, 

But  the  theme  is  still  the  same. 
Man's  battle-cry  and  the  guns*  reply 

Blend  in  with  the  old,  old  rhyme 
That  was  traced  in  the  score  of  the  strata  marks 
While  millenniums  winked  like  campfire  sparks 

Down  the  winds  of  unguessed  time. 

There's  a  finer  fight  than  of  tooth  and  claw, 

More  clean  than  of  blade  and  gun. 
But,  fair  or  foul,  by  the  Great  Bard's  law 

'Twill  be  fight  till  the  song  is  done. 
Not  mine  to  sigh  for  the  song's  deep  "why," 

Which  only  the  Great  Bard  hears. 
My  soul  steps  out  to  the  martial  swing 
Of  the  brave  old  song  that  the  Bad  Lands  sing. 

The  song  of  a  million  years. 


SARA  TEASDALE 

164.  Remembered  Beauty 

(To    E) 

I  HAVE  remembered  beauty  in  the  night, 
Against  black  silences  I  waked  to  see 
A  shower  of  sunlight  over  Italy 
And  green  Ravello  dreaming  on  her  height; 
I  have  remembered  music  in  the  dark, 

The  clean  swift  beauty  of  a  fugue  of  Bach's 
And  running  water  singing  on  the  rocks 
When  once  in  English  woods  I  heard  a  lark. 

But  all  remembered  beauty  is  no  more 

Than  a  vague  prelude  to  the  thought  of  you — 
You  are  the  rarest  soul  I  ever  knew, 

Lover  of  beauty,  knightliest  and  best; 

My  thoughts  seek  you  as  waves  that  seek  the 

shore, 
And  when  I  think  of  you,  I  am  at  rest. 

SARA  TEASDALE 

165.  Mastery 

I  WOULD  not  have  a  god  come  in 
To  shield  me  suddenly  from  sin, 
And  set  my  house  of  life  to  rights; 
Nor  angels  with  bright  burning  wings 
Ordering  my  earthly  thoughts  and  things; 
Rather  my  own  frail  guttering  lights 
Wind-blown  and  nearly  beaten  out. 
Rather  the  terror  of  the  nights 
And  long  sick  groping  after  doubt, 
Rather  be  lost  than  let  my  soul 
Slip  vaguely  from  my  own  control — 
Of  my  own  spirit  let  me  be 
In  sole  though  feeble  mastery. 


MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 
166.  The  Sorceress 

IN  innermost  mute  closures  of  the  sea 
(Some  say  flotillas  founder  at  her  door!), 
Amid  the  mildewed  ruined  ships  ashore 
And  safe  from  wailing  gales  eternally. 

Upon  grown-duU  doubloons  enthroned  is  she. 
Before  her,  lordly  masts  like  pylons  rise. 
Drowned  ermine  and  spoiled  purple  swathe  her 

thighs ; 
And  there  is  hint — which  must  voluptuous  be — 

Of  jewelled  anklets  jangling  without  sound ! 
Such  necklaces  as  Death  bestows  on  her 
Would  gleam  upon  that  bosom  did  it  stir; 

But  it  is  still,  and  in  like  silence  bound 

Are  admirals  and  captains  prisoned  there — 
Entangled  in  the  torment  of  her  hair! 


JOHN  RUSSELL  McCARTHY 
167.  June 

YON  dragonfly  is  friends  with  me 
And  by  my  dingle  goes 
The  solemn,  priestly  bumble-bee, 
That  marries  rose  to  rose. 

My  book?    In  sooth  I'm  using  it 
To  pillow  up  my  head: 
This  day-lay  is  a  brighter  bit 
Than  any  I  have  read. 

My  pipe  and  I  are  company. 
(The  cat-bird  thinks  it  queer 
That  I  should  burn  so  carelessly — 
Note  now  his  call  and  leer.) 

148 


JOHN  RUSSELL  McCARTHY 

All  morning-time,  from  dawn  till  noon, 
I  fished  and  mused  and  fished; 
One  wee-est  bite  had  I  for  boon: 
'Twas  all  the  boon  I  wished. 

I  roam  in  eye-reach  many  a  mile. 
In   fancy   further  roam; 
The  hours  like  fairy  smiles  beguile 
My  heart  to  my  heart's  home. 

Yon  veery  is  great  friends  with  me. 
And  by  my  hollow  goes 
The  grumbling,  mumbling  bumble-bee, 
That  weds  red  rose  to  rose. 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 
168.  The  End  of  the  Storm 

IN  the  dim  east  where  weed-brown  rocks  lie  bare 
The  weary  sea  uplifts  a  cloud  of  spray — 
The  last  white  banner  of  the  vanquished  storm. 
A  long,  low  wave  sweeps  onward  to  the  shore, 
It  floods  the  worn  vault  of  a  rocky  cave 
With  sharp  compression  like  a  great  door  shut. 
Then  slides  back  seaward,  spent  and  spiritless. 
That  is  the  end.    Thin  foam  will  wash  and  fret 
Along  the  blackened  ledges  but  the  tide 
Runs  low,  the  sea  has  lost  its  boisterous  power. 
Around  the  point  the  coastwise  shipping  spreads 
Great  mildewed  sails  to  catch  the  drying  sun. 

149 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 
169.  My  Heart  Said  *' Hasten !" 

WHEN  I  come  back  in  the  gloom 
To  my  lighted  house  once  more 
My  heart  says,  "Haste  tonight! 
There  is  something  you  do  not  know, 
Something  to  give  you  joy. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  door 
There  in  the  firelight's  glow, 
There  in  the  lighted  room." 

My  quick  heart  whispers  me, 
"The  lover  you  have  not  known 
Is  waiting  you  there  tonight, 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  rejoice?  .   .   . 
Or  the  kinsman  gone  over-sea. 
The  one  they  have  always  said 
Would  surely  come  back  some  day 
•  Waits  for  you,  brown,  wind-blown  .   .   . 

Or  the  dearest  one  of  the  dead 
Waits  in  the  ring  of  light, 
With  the  old  glad  face  and  voice 
As  if  he  were  never  away  .   .    . 
Hasten!"  my  heart  has  said. 

But  when  I  open  the  door 
There  are  only  the  old  lights 
And  the  old  accustomed  faces 
And  the  firelight  on  the  floor.  .   .   . 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 
170.  The  Winged  Victory 

NO  question  shall  I  make  of  what  you  mean 
Oh  winged  victory  superb  and  free — 
Nor  wonder  that  your  spirit  lives  serene, 
Immortal  in  its  spreading  majesty. 
Yours  is  a  conquest  all  unmarred  by  hate 
And  gentle  as  the  onward  march  of  spring — 
The  sweeping  glory  of  a  soul  elate 
But  tender  in  the  hour  of  triumphing. 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 
MUSINGS  OF  PIERROT 
171.  Pierrot  Gives  an  Accounting 


I 


AM  rich,  but  not  in  gold, 

Very  young  when  she  is  by: 
In  her  absence  then  am  I 
Very  old. 


Old,  so  old  that,  in  eclipse. 

My  desire  begins  to  freeze: 
Then  come  kisses — velvet  bees 
On  her  lips. 

Redder  lips  there  never  were, 

Thawing  frozen  passion  through, 
Until  swarming  kisses  do 
Warm  the  air. 

With  what  rapture  and  desire 
Is  my  vagrant  fancy  filled! 
Burning,  where  my  veins  were  chilled, 
What  sweet  fire! 

151 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 

Heart  to  heart  and  hour  by  hour, 

Never  a  marauding  bee 
Cherished  such  a  treasury 
In  a  flower. 

Wayward  hair  as  dark  as  jet, 

Blue  eyes,  tender  as  the  dawn, 
In  a  gown  of  snowy  lawn 
Thrills  Pierrette. 


172.      Pierrot  and  Pierrette  at  the  Window 


w 


HAT  though  we  shape  no  mighty  thing 

In  word  or  deed. 
Nor  sing  as  organ  voices  sing, 

Hymning   a   creed ! 


Good-will,  Pierrette,  to  all  the  crowd 

Is  something  still 
Reserved  for  us  to  hum  aloud; 

To  all,  good-will! 

Our  windows,  facing  toward  the  sun. 

Are  dim  and  small; 
And  our  own  vision  from  each  one 

Is  all  in  all. 

Searching  above  and  under  ground. 

Our  fancies  grope. 
Only  to  learn  what  may  be  found 

This  side  of  hope. 

What  wonders  haply  glorify 

The  other  side, 
Where  lurking,  veiled  from  mortal  eye, 

The  heavens  hide! 
152 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 


173.  The  Home-Coming  of  Pierrette 


w 


HOSE  footfall  is  it  on  the  stair? 

What  sweet  white  spell 
Is  laid  like  perfume  on  the  air. 

Where  we — we  dwell? 


A  dear  hand  hovers  at  the  door: 

The  gods  begin 
To  open  heaven  more  and  more: 

Come  in — come  in  ! 

Since  morning  has  she  been  away, 

Whose  absence  makes 
Each  moment  longer  than  a  day 

That  never   breaks. 

Ah  me!  that  she  should  ever  fail 

To  gladden  all 
The  poor  place,  like  a  nightingale, 

At  evenfall! 

Blinded  by  star-dust  in  our  eyes, 

Do  we  regret 
Our  home  is  very  near  the  skies? 

Pierrette,  Pierrette! 


174.  The  Protest  of  Pierrot 

(1914) 

1IKE  harsh  bells  tolling  in  a  trance, 
J      War  is   declared  ! 

Pierrette,  the  happiness  of  France 
May  not  be  spared ! 

153 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 

Think  of  sweet  bleeding  France  and  all 

The  joy  to  come, 
Being  defeated — and  the  pall 

On  hope  and  home! 

Home — home,  Pierrette,  for  us  at  least 

Who  waited  long, 
And  who  had  put  aside  the  feast 

To  hear  the  song! 

War  is  declared !    Versailles  ablaze  ! 

The  world  is  bared! 
God !  but  the  great  nights  and  the  days 

Love  had  declared! 


175.   Pierrot  Mourns  the  Death  of  Pierrette 


A 


H !  was  the  soul  of  Cain 
More  deeply  shaken 

At  the  red  dawn  of  pain, 
Or  more   forsaken? 


Ages  or  hours  ago. 

Was  it  the  sighing 
News  came  from  Bergamo? 

Pierrette  was  dying. 

She  who  had  meant  so  much. 

Not  to  me  only. 
But  whose  dear  voice  and  touch 

Made  life  less  lonely.  , 

Ages  or  hours  ago. 

Was  it  the  hurried 
Message  from  Bergamo 

Said  she  was  buried? 


WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 

Much  had  she  been  alone, 

Gentle,  forgiving, 
Rapturous  in  her  own 

Wonder  at  living. 

Placid  and  pale  her  brow, 

Jealousies   banished. 
Nothing  else  matters  now: 

Pierrette  has  vanished. 

Deep  in  my  heart  a  drouth, 

Parching,  discloses 
Cinders — and  in  my  mouth 

Ashes  of  roses. 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

176.  An  Afternoon 

THIS  was  one  of  the  dreary  whiles 
When  a  woman  sits  and  smiles 
Wishing  all  the  talk  was  over. 
Inward  thought  a  weary  rover  .   .   . 
But  my  lips  smiled  vividly — 
Ah,  the  women  could  not  see 
How  my  hand  in  yours  lay  warm 
Through  wide  miles  of  sun  and  storm 
(Far  away,  dear,  did  you  know 
That  I  smiled  to  feel  it  so?) 
And  my  eyes  burned  bright,  elate. 
Into  theirs  of  drearie.r  fate 
Seeing  your  eyes'  lovingness 
Into  mine  smile  deep  and  bless, 
(Far  away,  love,  did  you  see 
On  your  eyes  mine  lovingly?) 
While  between  the  words  they  made. 
Weary  words,  I  think,  dull- weighed. 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

We  were  talking  each  to  each; 
Why,  too  short  for  all  our  speech 
Was  the  lingering  afternoon, 
Throbbing  fast  and  vanished  soon 
(Far  away,  love,  did  you  hear 
All  I  whispered  in  your  ear?) 

And  they  said — I  heard  them  say — 
*'What  it  is  to  be  young  and  gay ! 
How  she  pleasured  in  the  day !" 


ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

177.  The  Quest 

(A    Lithuanian    folk-song) 

SWEET  was  the  song  that  the  Princess  trolled 
To  the  Youth  as  he  rode  away: 
''Bring  me  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 
And  the  Snow  of  a  Summer  Day !" 

Afar  he  fared  and  his  heart  was  bold — 

He  feared  not  flood  nor  fray. 
Yet  he  found  not  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 

Nor  the  Snow  ot  a  Summer  Day. 

The  night  was  clear  and  the  white  moon  rolled 

When  under  the  oak  he  lay 
And  dreamed  of  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 

And  the  Snow  of  a  Summer  Day. 

156 


ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

There  came  a  Bird  with  a  crest  of  gold 

And  carolled  a  roundelay, 
And  all  of  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 

And  the  Snow  of  a  Summer  Day: 

"I  see  the  fir  on  the  frosty  wold, 
The  foam  on  the  waves  at  play, — 

And  there  is  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 
And  the  Snow  of  a  Summer  Day!" 

He  took  of  the  plume  of  the  fir  tree  old 
And  the  foam  of  the  billow  gray, 

And  brought  her  the  Flower  of  the  Winter  Cold 
And  the  Snow  of  a  Summer  Day. 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

178.  The  Road 

DOWN  the  long  road  we  went. 
Friends  and  lovers,  we  two. 
Incredibly  content. 
Tingling  somehow  with  the  commonplace  view; 
Amazed  at  the  heaven's  most  casual  blue. 
Sniffing  the  air  with  astonishment, 
As  though  for  the  first  time  we  knew 
The  sharp  smell  of  the  pine-woods  blent 
With  the  vague  wild  rose's  scent. 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Each  roadside  flower  that  ran  along  with  us 

Suddenly  seemed  a  thing  miraculous; 

Translating  all  its  magic  into  song. 

Even  their  names  were  music;  faint  and  strong 

They    flashed    godspeed    and    called    from    where    they 

grew — 
The  feathery  clusters  of  the  Meadow-Rue; 
Red  Lilies  dancing  by,  with  wanton  feet; 
The  graceful  spires  of  the  Meadow-sweet. 
Even  the  shy  Sheep-laurel  looked  around 
To  stare  with  deep  pink  eyes;  while,  from  the  ground, 
Soft  as  the  thing  from  which  it  took  its  name. 
The  Infant's  Breath  with  double  sweetness  came. 
And  over  all  the  mingled  richness  lay 
The  hot,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  drying  hay   .    .    . 

The  city  slipped  away; 

Its  harshness  melted  as  the  twilight  grew; 

Its  power  was  spent. 

Something  was  walking  with  us,  something  new; 

It  sang  the  world  into  our  hearts  and  sent 

Our  spirits  dancing  to  where  Beauty  lay 

Over  the  heavens  like  a  testament. 

There  was  one  star — and  a  great  wash  of  blue   .    .    . 

Down  the  long  road  we  went, 

Friends  and  lovers,  we  two. 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER   PERCY 

179.  On  Sunday  Morning 

FAR,  far  from  here  the  church  bells  ring 
As  when  I  was  a  child; 
And  there  is  one  I  dearly  love 
Walks  in  the  sunlight  mild. 
To  church  she  goes  and  with  her  once 
I  went,  a  little  child. 

The  church  bells  ring  far,  far  away. 

The  village  streets  are  bright. 
The  sunlight  falls  in  slanting  bars 

And  fills  the  church  with  light. 
And  I  remember  when  I  knelt 

Beside  her  in  delight. 

There's  something  lost,  there's  something  lost, 

Some  wisdom  has  beguiled ! 
My  heart  has  flown   a  thousand   miles 

And  in  the  sunlight  mild 
It  kneels  and  weeps  beside  her  there. 

And  she  prays  for  her  child. 

SARA  TEASDALE 

180.  The  Strawberry  Man 

THE  April  afternoon  was  long, 
And  though  I  heard  a  robin's  song 
From  the  grass-plot  richly  green 
As  the  velvet  cloak  of  a  fairy  queen, 
And  though  the  maple  tips  were  red, 
And  many  a  jonquil  bowed  its  head, 
Yet  Spring  had  sent  no  special  word 
Meant  for  me  until  I  heard 
Down  in  the  street  a  man  go  by, 
Calling  low  and  calling  high 
**Straw-ber-ries,  straw-ber-ries !" 

159 


SARA  TEASDALE 

His  passing  voice  had  hurried  me 
Back  to  the  child  I  used  to  be 
Before  the  days  when  I  was  grown, 
And  all  the  years  that  I  have  known 
Of  storm  and  dream  and  love  and  grief 
Fell  like  rain  from  a  bending  leaf — 
I  was  a  child  with  windy  hair 
Finding  all  things  wild  and  fair, 
And  from  my  window  looking  far 
Over  roof  and  tree  to  the  evening  star, 
And  hearing  a  man  sing  far  away 
At  the  silver  close  of  an  April  day 
"Straw-ber-ries,  straw-ber-ries." 

JOSEPHINE  LAWRENCE 
181.  Memory 

I  THOUGHT  I  had  forgotten  .  .   . 
To  help  me  to  be  brave, 
I  would  not  keep  the  treasures 
That  other  women  save. 

The  foolish  little  trifles 
That  wring  our  hearts  with  pain, 
When,  after  aching  silence. 
They  speak  to  us  again. 

The  things  that  go  on  living 
Long  after  love  is  dead — 
I  watched  them  burn  to  ashes. 
Then  faced  the  years  ahead. 

I  thought  I  had  forgotten: 
I  was  serene,  and  strong, 
Till,  out  of  the  dark  last  night. 
Some  one  whistled  your  song! 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR. 
182.  A  Prayer  in  Time  of  War 

OGOD  of  battles,  lift  our  hearts  to  Thee! 
We  had  forgot,  since  Thou  art  Lord  of  life 
That  Thou  art  Lord  of  strife; 
For  we  grew  weary  of  the  old  stern  ways. 
Our  spirits  fine  and  thin 
Winced  at  the  name  of  sin — 
That  was  an  ugly  word  of  cruder  days. 
We  chose  to  learn  and  teach 
A  gentler  thought,  a  softer  sounding  speech. 
Heaven  was  a  goal  one  could  not  help  but  win, 
And  there  was  no  more  hell, 
Even  on  earth.     We  thought  that  to  live  well 
Was  to  live  long  and  prosper,  so  we  beat 
Our  swords  to  ploughshares  for  the  golden  wheat. 
From  year  to  year  we  saw  our  wealth  increase, 
And  when  amid  all  this  content  we  saw 
Injustice  in  our  land,  we  made  a  law — 
And  this,  we  said,  was  Peace  .    .    . 
While  under  our  soft  music  was  the  roll 
Of  Thy  resistless  drum,  that  bade  us  face 
The  inevitable  warfare  of  the  soul. 
But  in  our  comfortable  world  no  place 
Was  left  for  hate — even  for  hate  of  wrong. 
We  would  not  make  a  discord  in  our  song. 
God!  how  Thy  trumpet  blared 
Wild  terror  on  our  spirits  unprepared ! 
Was  Thy  blind  world  so  sodden  in  its  ease 
That  Thou  must  write  Thy  warning  on  the  sky 
In  characters  like  these? 

That  men  may  learn  to  live,  must  millions  die? 
Then,  comrades,  to  the  battle!     Where  is  peace? 
It  was  a  dream  that  closed  our  drowsy  eyes. 
While  evil  is,  our  struggle  may  not  cease. 
Beyond  the  war  that  wakens  us,  there  lies 


•AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Another  and  a  fiercer  war — the  fight 

Within  our  very  souls,  of  wrong  and  right. 

When  freedom's  flag  for  every  nation  flies. 

Then  comes  the  Armageddon  of  each  heart, 

Against  the  stealthy  and  insidious  foes 

That  every  conscience  knows. 

God  grant  us  bravely  each  to  do  his  part 

For  justice,  honour,  truth  and  brotherhood, 

Knowing,  whate'er  the  cost,  the  fight  is  good. 

Not  as  today,  with  lives  like  wine  outpoured 

In  sacrifice,  O  Lord, 

But  paying  the  true  liberty's  dear  price 

In  living  sacrifice. 

O  Ood  of  battles,  give  us  victory! 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

183.  The  Smile  of  Reims 

"rriHE    smile,"    they    called    her,— "La    Sourire"; 
\^  and  fair — 

A  sculptured  angel  on  the  northern  door 
Of  the  Cathedral's  west  facade — she  wore 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  toil  and  care 
That  smile,  mysteriously  wrought  and  rare. 
As  if  she  saw  brave  visions  evermore — 
Kings,  and  an  armored  Maid  who  lilies  bore. 
And  all  the  glories  that  had  once  been  there. 

How  like  to  thee,  her  undefeated  Land! 
Wounded  by  bursting  shells,  a  little  space 
Broken  she  lay  beneath  her  ancient  portal; 
But  lifted  from  the  earth  with  trembling  hand. 
Victorious,  still  glowed  upon  her  face 

Thy  smile,  heroic  France,  love-given  and  immor- 
tal ! 

162 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER   PERCY 

184.  The  Man  in  White 

"r^  OLDIER,  knowest  thou  the  land, 
[3     The  land  that's  home  to  thee?" 

"Stranger,  with  the  voice  not  strange, 
Why  do  you  lean  to  me, 
A  wounded  man,  and  speak  a  word 
That  mocks  my  memory?" 

"Soldier,  I  am  from  that  land, 

The  land  that's  home  to  thee." 
**0  stranger,  with  the  gentle  hands, 

Now  let  your  pity  be. 
You  have  no  word  what  land  is  mine. 

Your  closed  eyes  cannot  see 
As  mine,  as  mine,  the  land  of  lands. 

The  land  where  I  would  be." 

"I  see  a  field  of  apple-trees 

That  top  a  furrowed  hill, 
A  little  house,  a  little  room, 

A  flowered  window-sill, 
A  woman  with  a  face  like  thine 

But  eyes  more  sweet  and  still, 
Who  prays  across  the  gathered  dusk 

To  guard  her  child  from  ill." 

"My  God,  my  God,  I  fear  to  look 

Lest  there  be  no  man  by! 
If  this  be  but  a  fever-dream 

O  let  me  sleep  and   die. 
And  never  know  a  blessed  ghost 

From  home  had  heard  my  cry!" 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 

"See  me,  touch  me,  let  thy  head 

On  my  bosom  weigh. 
This  the  kiss  your  mother  sent 

That  on  your  lips  I  lay." 
"Yes — it  is  hers — no  other  drives 

The  awful  pain  away — 
I  think — that  I  could  fall  asleep — 

If  you — would  only — stay." 

"Rest  thee,  rest  thee  on  my  breast. 

Let  the  deep  sleep  come. 
Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  soldier  lad. 

Time  is  past  to  roam. 
Waking,  I  shall  still  be  near 

And  we  shall  be  at  home." 


FLORENCE  BOYCE  DAVIS 

185.  The  Cow  Path 

NO  chain  has  covered  its  distance,  nor  needle  pointed 
the  way; 
Up  the  rugged,  sun-parched  hillside  it  leads  to 
cranny  and  glade. 
Where  a  brook  down  moss-green  ledges  tosses   a  silver 
spray, 
And  'tis  cool  in  the  hottest  noontide, — that's  where  the 

trail  is  laid. 
The  long  trail,  the  wild  trail,  the  trail  that  the  cows 
have   made. 

Skirting  boulder  and  hillock  it  winds  off  into  the  woods; 
In  spring  the  early  saxifrage,  like  billows  of  fragrant 
foam. 
And  violets,  yellow  and  blue  and  white,  peering  under 
their  hoods, 

164 


FLORENCE  BOYCE  DAVIS 

Blossom  along  the  borders  of  the  hard-packed  pasture 

loam; 
Blossom  and  nod  on  the  borders  of  the   trail  where 

the  cows  come  home. 

Freed  from  shutter  and  rooftree  when  new  green  tints 

the  hill, 

And  every  last  year's  mullein  stalk  is  tipped  with  a 

singing  bird, 

Come,  let  us  take  to  the  open  and  follow  the  trail  at  will, 

Bringing  our  feet  to  the  good  brown  earth  that  spring 

has  leavened  and  stirred; 
Climbing,   up   the   hill   climbing   in    the   wake   of   the 
gypsy  herd. 

We  shall  hear  the  winds  of  summer  softening  through  the 
pine. 
We  shall  find  the  purple  trillium  by  the   root  of  a 
beechen  tree; 
Faring  along  together,  you  and  I  and  the  kine. 

One  quest  theirs  to  follow,  and  another  for  you  and 

me, 
Up  the  long  trail,  the  steep  trail,  where  beasts  and 
men  go  free. 

Are   there  other  pathways,  tell   me,   that   lead   to   holier 
things — 
Chickadees    in   the    hemlocks,   a    winter    wren    in    the 
brush. 
The    drumming    call    of    the    ruffed    grouse    beating    his 
lover's  wings, 
And  the  song  that  fills  the  wood's  edge  after  the  sun- 
set's flush, — 
The  wild,  sweet  hymn  of  the  pasture  sung  by  a  hermit 
thrush? 

165 


FLORENCE   BOYCE   DAVIS 

Come,  then;  for  the  day  is  ready,  and  spring  is  on  the 
land; 

Over    the    hill    the    saxifrage  is  spilling  its  fragrant 
foam, 

There  is  peace  in  the  winds  of  heaven,  and   treasure   on 
every  hand; 

We  will  fill  our  cups  with  gladness  as  up  the  trail  we 
roam. 

As  down  the  trail  at  set  of  sun  we  follow  the  cattle 
home. 


STOKELY  S.  FISHER 
186.  Under  the  Dead  Stars 

THE  Roman  road  to  the  ferry !    A  bullet,  a  dagger's 
prod — 
Oh  frail  is  the  lock  of  the  gate,  one  need  not  wait 
for  God ! 
But  what  was  your  welcome,  I  wonder,  there  in  the  land 

of  souls? 
Were  you  met  with  the  flash  of  swords  and   of  angry 

aureoles 
When  you  rushed,  uncalled,  to  the   Presence?     Or   did 

they  extend  kind  hands. 
The  guarding  angels  there,  with  a  pity  that  understands? 

The  Roman  road  to  the  ferry !    Oh  you  could  not  endure 
The  patient  days  of  the  toiler,  the  burdens  which  bend 

the  poor! 
It  seemed  to  you  disgrace  to  yield  the  patrician  place, 
So   the   fate   of   Brutus   and   Cato  you   challenged   with 

smiling  face. 
Nor  ever  guessed  of  the  courage  that  shames  the  sword 

of  Rome 
In  the  humble  service  of  love,  the  labor  that  guards  the 

home! 

166 


STOKELY  S.  FISHER 

The  Roman  road  to  the  ferry !  Alas  that  ever  the  burden 
Laid  hard  on  the  human  heart  should  seem  to  outweigh 

the  guerdon; 
That  the  eyes  should  so  be  filled  with  dust  and  sweat  and 

blood 
They  see  not  the  winter  seed,  but  only  behold  the  mud! 
Alas  for  the  pagan  despair,  and  the  spirit  in   forming 

flawed, 
That  know  not  Golgotha's  midnight  is  only  the  shadow 

of  God! 

The  Roman  road  to  the  ferry !  O  victim  of  brigand  days. 
All  see  the  post  deserted;  who  dares  to  give  you  praise? 
The  weakest  who  stays  and  strives  at  least  has  courage 

to  live; 
Though  you  may  be   forgiven,   there  was  something  to 

forgive ! 
You  turned  your  back  to  failure,  you  fled  away  in  the 

night. 
But,   oh,   could   you   return,   would   you   now   not   stand 

and  fight? 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 

187.  Overtones 

I  HEARD  a  bird  at  break  of  day 
Sing  from  the  autumn  trees 
A  song  so  mystical  and  calm. 
So  full  of  certainties. 
No  man,  I  think,  could  listen  long 

Except  upon  his  knees. 
Yet  this  was  but  a  simple  bird, 
Alone,  among  dead  trees. 

167 


WITTER  BYNNER 

188.  The  Golden  Heart 

I  HAD  a  heart  as  good  as  gold 
For  spending  or  for  buying; 
It  bought  me  many  a  hand  to  hold 
And  many  a  breath  for  sighing. 

It  bought  me  many  a  mouth  to  kiss, 
And  many  a  secret  token — 
But  what's  the  good  of  all  of  this 
Now  that  my  heart  is  broken! 

My  heart  that  once,  as  good  as  gold, 
Bought  anything  that  mattered 
Is  like  a  tale  completely  told, 
Like  golden  money  scattered   .    .    . 

But  somewhere  there's  a  heart  so  young 
It  still  can  spare  for  spending 
Will  sing  the  song  that  I  have  sung, 
Beginning  with  my  ending. 

BEATRICE  WASHBURN 

189.  The  Road  to  A  sola 

AS  we  rode  down  to  Asola 
^  A  thousand  years  ago, 
The  olive  trees  beside  the  way 
Bent  down  their  heads  so  low 
To  watch  us  as  we  passed  along. 
And,  on  the  hills  near  by, 
The  almond  flowers  softly  laid 
Their  cheeks  against  the  sky. 

We  knew  the  road  to  Asola 
Those  centuries   ago. 
The  glad  acacias  lightly  danced 
Along  the  fields  to  show 
168 


BEATRICE  WASHBURN 

A  golden  pathway  for  our  feet; 
We  wandered  where  it  led. 
The  eucalyptus  gravely  bowed 
Their  crowns  above  our  head. 

Along  the  road  to  Asola 

We  rode  in  years  gone  by. 

We  watched  the  drowsy  mountains  melt 

Into  the  evening  sky. 

We  saw  the  tired  sun  go  down 

And  fall  across  our  way. 

W^hile  down  the  valleys  sang  the  sea 

Just  as  it  does  today. 


G.  A.  PORTERFIELD 

190.  In.  Hospital 

HOW  often  have  I  heard  the  wind  night-long 
Making  wild  music  in  the  tops  of  trees 
Yet  lulled  and  soothed  by  that  mighty  song 
Sunk  dreamwards  into  hollow,  shadowy  ease: 
Each  gust  had  seemed  the  chime  of  some  low  gong 
Swelling  together  in  vast  symphonies   .    .    . 
Tonight  the  wind  seems  sinister  and  strong 
And  stirs  my  heart  to  dark  and  stormy  seas. 

Here  hang  low-burning  lamps:  dim  figures  pass 
And  repass,  ghostly  in  the  quietness 
Like  shadows  mirrored  in  an  antique  glass. 
The  still  white  cots  .   .    . 

And  outside  storm  and  stress 
The  thunder  and  the  beating  of  great  wings; 
I  think  it  is  death's  dreadful  pinionings  .    .    . 

169 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 
191.  Sanctuary 

SWEEP  over  me,  O  lovely  winds 
That  shake  the  tasseled  oak. 
The  patience  of  the  ancient  earth 
Turns  blossom  at  your  stroke: 
The  very  grievance  of  the  air 
Thins  out  to  silver  smoke. 

Sweep  over  me,  O  youthful  winds, 

And  I  will  lie  as  dead 
Upon  the  leaves  that  lived  last  year. 

With  new  leaves  overhead. 
Has  your  beneficence  no  balm 

For  hearts  grown  wearied? 

There's  weariness  of  labor  done 
That  dark  and  sleep  appease: 

There's  fragrant  weariness  of  flesh 
Delightfuller  than  ease: 

But  there's  a  weariness  that  comes 
More  wearily  than  these. 

With  neither  blossoms  in  its  hair, 

Nor  sleepy  sound  of  rain. 
Nor  bearing  ointments  to  allay 

The  heart  that's  sick  with  pain. 
There  is  a  weariness  that  comes 

And  does  not  go  again. 

O  ancient  earth  that  never  tires, 

O  heavens  that  renew, 
O  winds  that  foam  and  flash  and  blow 

Forever  fresh  as  dew. 
There  is  a  wounded  thing  that  lies 

Face-down  and  calls  on  you. 

170 


SARA  TEASDALE 

192.  In  a  Burying  Ground 

THIS  is  the  spot  where  I  will  lie 
When  life  has  had  enough  of  me, 
These  are  the  grasses  that  will  blow 
Above  me  like  a  living  sea. 

These  gay  old  lilies  will  not  shrink 
To  draw  their  life  from  death  of  mine, 

And  I  will  give  my  body's  fire 
To  make  blue  flowers  on  this  vine. 

"O  soul,"  I  cried,  "have  you  no  tears, 
Was  not  the  body  dear  to  you?" 

I  heard  my  soul  say  carelessly, 
"The  myrtle-flowers  will  grow  more  blue." 

WITTER  BYNNER 

193.  Grenstone 

*'TS  there  such  a  place  as  Grenstone?" 
J_      Celia,  hear  them  ask! — 

Tell  me,  shall  we  share  it  with  them? 
Shall  we  let  them  breathe  and  bask 

On  the  windy,  sunny  pasture. 
Where  the  hill-top  turns  its  face 

Toward  the  valley  of  the  mountain. 
Our  beloved  place? 

Shall  we  show  them  through  our  churchyard. 

With  its   crumbling  wall 
Set  between  the  dead  and  living? 

Shall  our  willowed  waterfall, 

Blueberries  and  pines  and  bluebirds. 
Be  a  secret  we  shall  share?  .    .    . 

If  they  make  but  little  of  it, 
Celia,  shall  we  care? 

171  . 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

194.  The  Woman  at  Home 

EACH  at  her  post  we  women  stand; 
Mine  is  the  safer,  easier  part — 
And  yet  there  is  an  iron  band 
Of  envy  round  my  heart 
For  her,  the  weary  nurse  who  spent 
Those  last  dear  moments  at  his  side, 
The  woman  who  in  pity  bent 
And  kissed  him  when  he  died. 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

195.  Atavism 

I  LEANT  out  over  a  ledging  cliff  and  looked  down  into 
the  sea, 
Where    weed    and   kelp   and    dulse    swayed,   in   green 
translucency ; 
Where  the  abalone   clung  to  the  rock  and   the  star-fish 

lay  about, 
Purpling  the  sands  that  slid  away  under  the  silver  trout. 

And  the  sea-urchin  too  was  there,  and  the  sea-anemone. 
It  was  a  world  of  watery  shapes  and  hues  and  wizardry. 
And  I  felt  old  stirrings  wake  in  me,  under  the  tides  of 

time, 
Sea-hauntings  I  had  brought  with  me  out  of  the  ancient 

slime. 

And  now,  as  I  muse,  I  cannot  rid  my  senses  of  the  spell 

That  in  a  tidal  trance  all  things   around  me  drift   and 
swell 

Under  the  sea  of  the  Universe,  down  into  which  strange 
eyes 

Keep  peering  at  me,  as  I  peered,  with  wonder  and  sur- 
mise. 
.    172 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 

196.  Music  of  Great  Spaces 

MUSIC  of  great  spaces,  mighty  organ  tones 
That  leap   along  arched   roofs,  that  crash   and 
break 
Against  high  walls,  that  whisper  faint  and  thin 
Through  quiet  naves  and  chapels.     Voice  of  worship, 
Voice  of  prayer,  voice  of  the  mute  who  kneel. 
Who  worship  but  who  know  not  how  to  pray. 
What  need  of  measured  chant  or  halting  word 
While  these  great  sounds  go  rolling,  tumbling,  rolling, 
And  spirit  answers  spirit  everywhere! 


G.  A.  PORTERFIELD 

197.  A  Carol  for  Christmas:  1917 

^'/^  OD  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen, 
\J(      Let  nothing  you  dismay  ..." 

Yes,  rest  you  all,  who  gallantly 
Go  forward  to  the  fray. 
And  may  you  see  who  so  go  forth 
Some  happier  Christmas  Day. 

Adventurers  for  England's  sake 
Who  these  grim  ways  now  roam, 

God  rest  you  all  this  Christmas  Day 
So  far  away  from  home, 

Far  from  the  villages  and  downs 
That  lie  twixt  Thames  and  Frome. 

And  you,  O  gallant  gentlemen, 
This  Christmas  Day  who  sleep 

Alone   far  out  on  lonely  fields. 
Who  never  more  shall  keep 

The  Christmas-tide,  God  send  to  you 
Untroubled  dreams  and  deep. 

173 


G.  A.  PORTERFIELD 

"God  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen": 

The  living  and  the  gay, 
The  very  gallant  gentlemen  .   .   . 

"Let*  nothing  you   dismay: 
Our  Saviour  Jesu  Christ  was  born 

This  blessed  Christmas  Day." 


BLISS  CARMAN 
198.  After  a  Parting 

(Written  after  what  proved  to  be  Mr.   Carman's  last  good-by 
to  James  Whitcomb  Riley) 

WHAT  ails  the  air  in  Denmark, 
And  darkness  all  the  day? 
There  is  a  shadow  on  the  place, 
Since  Hamlet  went  away. 

The  morning  and  the  noonday 
Are  no   more   magical. 
And  no  more  comes  the  witchery 
That  fell  with  evenfall. 

There  is  no  heart  in  laughter, 
There  is  no  cheer  in  wine. 
Even  the  women's  shining  eyes 
Have  somehow  veiled  their  shine. 

There  is  no  royal  presence, 
No  smile  to  bless  the  day, 
No  word  to  make  us  gladder,  now 
The  prince  is  gone  away. 

The  fair  and  wide-spread  city. 
That  used  to  bask  in  gold 
Under  the  mellow  autumn  sun, 
Is  dull  and  gray  and  cold. 


BLISS  CARMAN 

The  street-cries  that  were  music 
To  herald  in  the  morn, 
Under  a  wintry  twilight  now 
Fall  minor  and  forlorn. 

The  lamps  that  flashed  at  sunset 
Across  the  purple  square 
To  make  a  twinkling  fairyland, 
Are  dimmer  than  they  were. 

No  lights  are  in  the  palace. 
No  crowd  about  the  door, 
The  chain  is  rusting  on  the  gate. 
And  dark  is  Elsinore. 

There's  something  drear  in  Denmark 
That  saddens  every  day, 
For  lonely-hearted  is  the  place 
Since  Hamlet  went  away. 


DAVID  MORTON 

199,  Immortalis 

ALL  loved  and  lovely  women  dear  to  rhyme: 
^Thais,  Cassandra,  Helen  and  their  fames, 
Burn  like  tall  candles  through  forgotten  time, 
Lighting  the  Past's  dim  arras  with  their  names. 
Around  their  faces  wars  the  eager  dark 
Wherein  all  other  lights  are  sunken  now, 
Yet,  casting  back,  the  seeker  still  may  mark 
A  flame  of  hair,  a  bright  immortal  brow. 

175 


DAVID  MORTON 

Surely,  where  they  have  passed,  one  after  one, 

Wearing  their  radiance  to  the  darkened  room,- 

Surely,  new-comers  to  Oblivion 

May  still  descry  in  that  all-quenching  gloom, 

Rare  faces  lovely,  lifted  and  alight, 

Like  tapers  burning  through  the  windy  night. 


VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 
200.  The  Little  House 

A  LITTLE  house,  that  sheltered  lies 
Near  to  the  wood  and  field ; 
I  see  it  when  serener  skies 
Burnish  the  river's  shield. 
And  all  the  meadows  mystic  are 
With  twilight's  subtle  grace, 
Yet  friendlier  for  the  fallen  star 
Of  daisy  and  Queen's  Lace. 

A  homely  lane  comes  wandering  down 

Where  bloom  and  brier  meet, 

And  wildrose  weaving,  like  life's  crown. 

Its  bitter  thorn  and  sweet; 

Pansies  and  pinks  and  mignonette, 

And  precious  olden  things 

All  linger  here,  lest  we  forget 

How  luminous  Time's  wings. 

My  candle  shines  on  an  autumn  night 
When  the  rack  of  a  wild  wind  blows; 
God  grant  it  send  a  kindly  light 
To  a  soul  that  lonely  goes ! 
Here,  at  the  last,  I  find  these  best: 
Stars  that  are  calm  and  wise, 
176 


VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 

Work,  and  the  brooding  wings  of  rest, 
With  peace  and  memories.   .    .    . 

O  little  house,  in  the  sunset  gleam, 
Yet  never  wrought  by  hand: 
He  only.  Who  has  given  the  dream. 
Knows  where  you  waiting  stand ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

20 L  Song  in  Autumn 

SHALL  it  be  sad,  the  song  that  I  shall  sing. 
Now  that  the  paths  are  strewn  with  ruined 
gold? 
Shall  it  be  set  to  some  low  plaintive  string, 
Now  that  the  year  grows  old? 

Shall  it  be  tuned  to  sorrow,  to  some  chord 
Of  mourning,  like  the  sobbing  of  the  pines. 

Now  the  last  rose-leaves  lie  upon  the  sward, 
And  the  swift  year  declines? 

Nay,  love,  no  song  I  fashion  shall  be  thus, 
But  filled  with  joy,  with  vernal  rapturing! 

What  grievous  thing  can  autumn  hold  for  us 
Who  in  our  hearts  find  spring! 

THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

202.  The  Christ-Child 

THE  ancient  Star  of  Promise 
Stands  in  the  quiet  sky. 
Above  deserted  trenches 
Where  staring  dead  men  lie. 
A  wounded  boy  beholding 
That  far  prophetic  ray 
Is  talking  to  his  mother. 
As  fevered  memories  stray, 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

Of  Shepherds  and  of  Angels, 
Of  a  Baby  hi  the  hay. 

A  candle  softly  shining, 

A  wavering,  wind-blown  spark; 

A  woman  at  a  window 

Is  gazing  thro'  the  dark. 

"Keeper  of  Lights,"  she  whispers, 

"To  whom  all  lights  are  one, 

By  candle-light  or  star-light, 

Before  the  night  is  done. 

Guide  Thou  the  wandering  footsteps 

Of  the  Christ-Child  to  my  son." 

Across  the  peaceful  midnight 

Rushes  a  blazing  shell. 

It  bursts  above  the  trenches 

A  lurid  star  of  hell; 

And  by  its  glare  illumined, 

Fearless  and  undefiled. 

Moving  among  the  dead  men 

A  little  Shining  Child; 

The  dying  boy  said,  "Brother !" 

And  all  the  dead  men  smiled. 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 


203.  Mochery 


I 


N  dreams  you  come  to  mock  me,  in  deep  night 

When  dark  is  all  the  earth  and  slumber-still, 
Save  for  the  streaming  of  the  pale  starlight 
And  far-off  wailing  of  the  whippoorwill. 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 

Then  through  the  room  that  held  you  once  you  move 
With  the  old  carelessness  and  dear  disdain, 

And  lift  your  hands  up  in  the  way  I  love — 
And  the  old  ritual  we  repeat  again. 

Still  from  your  lips  that  secret  I  entreat — 
The  riddle  still  unanswered  evermore — 

And  to  your  lips  your  finger-tip  in  sweet 
Command  you  lift  and  silence  as  before; 

And  in  the  pallor  of  the  waning  night, 
Laughing,  but  silently,  you  fade  away: 

And  morning  glimmers,  and  the  feeble  light 
Widens  into  the  common  blaze  of  day. 


BADGER  CLARK 

204.  Latigo  Town 

YOU  and  I  settled  this  section  together; 
Youthful  and  mettled  and  wild  were  we  then. 
You  were  the  gladdest  town  out  in  the  weather; 
I  was  the  maddest  young  scamp  among  men. 

Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 
Child  of  the  mesa  sun-flooded  and  brown, 
That  hour  of  gracious  romance  and  good  leather. 
Splendid,  audacious,  comes  never  again. 

Many  a  rover  as  brash  as  a  sparrow. 

Loping  in  over  the  amethyst  plains. 
Reined  for  your  spinning  roulette  and  your  faro, 

Light-hearted  sinning  and  fiddled  refrains. 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

We  made  a  past  you  are  still  living  down, 
Keen  for  a  tussle,  with  salt  in  our  marrow. 

Steel  in  our  muscles  and  sun  in  our  veins ! 

179 


BADGER  CLARK 

Rowels  that  jingled  and  rigs  that  were  tattered, 

Yet  how  we  tingled  to  dreams  that  were  high ! 
Slim  was  the  treasure  we  gathered  and  scattered, 

But  can  you  measure  the  wind  and  the  sky? 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

Freedom  and  youth  were  a  robe  and  a  crown. 
Then  we  were  bosses  of  riches  that  mattered. 

Laughing  at  losses  of  things  you  can  buy. 

Town  that  was  fiery  and  careless  and  Spanish, 

Boy  that  was  wiry  and  wayward  and  glad — 
Over  the  border  to  limbo  they  vanish; 

Progress  and  order  decreed  they  were  bad. 
Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 

Pursy  with  culture  and  civic  renown. 
Never  censorious  progress  can  banish 

Dreams  of  the  glorious  youth  that  we  had ! 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 
205.  A  Love-Song 

THIS  is  the  love-song  we  today  are  singing — 
The  song  of  her  who,  blessing,  most  is  blest: 
Giver  of  dreams  that  set  the  soul  far  winging. 
And  bring  it  home  to  rest. 

This  is  the  song  of  her,  our  fount  of  being, 

The  pilot  of  our  hope,  where'er  we  go: 
Of  her — the  brave,  the  patient,  the  foreseeing — 

To  whom  our  all  we  owe. 

The  wronged,  oppressed, — what  poor,  unfriended  comer 
Has  not,  with  her,  found  shelter  safe  from  storm? — 

A  smile  of  welcoming  as  sweet  as  summer, 
A  heart  as  deep  and  warm? 

180 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

Can  we  have  voice  today  for  others'  praises, 
When  evil  and  disaster  threaten  her? 

Ah,  no !  a  passion  that  man's  soul  upraises. 
New-born  in  us,  doth  stir 

At  thought  of  her,  belov'd,  who  shows  us  living 
Is  not  the  mere  continuance  of  breath. 

Giving  her  favored  ones  a  joy  of  giving. 
Ineffable  in  death! 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


206.  Fantasy 


A 


BIRD  ran  up  the  onyx  steps  of  night. 

Seeking  the  moon  upon  her  silver  throne; 
But  insolent  stars  confused  him  with  their  light 
And  left  him  in  the  friendless  skies,  alone. 


He  watched  the  winds,  disheveled  and  awry, 

Hurling  the  clouds,  like  pillows  from  their  beds; 

He  saw  the  mountain  peaks  that  nudged  the  sky, 
Take  off  the  wreaths  of  sunset  from  their  heads. 

He  heard  the  storms,  a  troupe  of  headstrong  boys. 
Locked  up  as  punishment  for  petulant  tears. 

Beat  on  the  ebony  doors  with  such  a  noise, 
That  all  the  angels  had  to  hold  their  ears. 

Frightened,  he  left  the  halls  of  thundering  sound 
For  a  less  dazzling  height,  a  lowlier  dream ; 

And,  perching  on  a  watery  bough,  he  found 

The  moon,  her  white  laugh  rippling  from  the 
stream. 

181 


JOHN  RUSSELL  McCARTHY 

207.  The  Still  Trees 

I  THANK  you,  Elm  and  Beech  and  all  my  friends 
That  live  so  wisely  on  the  happy  hills, 
I  thank  you  for  your  silence.     Even  a  friend 
(Especially  a  friend)   must  have  his  moods, 
His  long  still  days  of  dreaming  silence  spent 
In  strange  communion  with  his  soul  and  God. 

And  you,  my  friends,  have  chosen  for  your  silence 
The  slow  lean  months  of  winter.     All  the  burdens 
And  all  the  joys  of  this  embattled  earth 
You  dare  forget,  so  that  your  soul  and  God 
May  have  their  hour  of  studious  solitude. 

So  I,  O  friends,  who  walk  among  you  now, 
Go  searching  inward  to  the  soul  in  me. 
And  bend  my  dreams  unto  the  God  we  know. 
I  thank  you,  Elm  and  Beech  and  all  my  friends 
That  live  so  wisely  on  the  happy  hills. 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 

208.  In  Our  Yard 

MOSES,  Moses,   seeing  God 
In  a  bush  that  burned, 
Moses,  Moses,  hearing  God 
Advising,  unconcerned, 

I  believe  you,  for  myself 
Saw  him  plain  and  heard — 

Others  saw  a  myrtle  bush 
That  held  a  mocking-bird. 


NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CONOR 

209.  The  Hill  o'  Breams 

THE  hill  o'  dreams?     Ten  days  ago 
The  landscape  looked  brown,  flat,  and  bare, 
No  rolling  country  anywhere; 
You  came  upon  my  sight,  and  lo, 

The  hill  o'  dreams ! 

It  is  a  Fairy  hill  I  climb, 
Through  magic  country  all  unseen 
Until  I  knew  what  might  have  been. 
Found  you,  and  in  that  moment's  time 
The  hill  o'  dreams. 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

210.  The  Story-Booh' s  End 

NOW  their  sorrows  are  done  and  through. 
Closed  and  done,  for  the  book  is  over, 
Golden  head  of  the  princess  true 
On  the  golden  heart  of  the  prince  her  lover ! 
What  are  all  of  the  nets  that  bound  them. 

All  of  the  bars  between  them  laid. 
Now  that  Joy  and  True  Love  have  crowned  them. 
Now  that  Fate  has  condoned,  repaid ! 

Not  for  them  is  the  loss  of  laughter, 

Age,  or  weariness  each  of  each, 
Theirs  is  happiness  ever  after. 

Loyal  friendship  and  loving  speech; 
Lover-passion  that  does  not  alter. 

Tender  whispers  that  never  tire — 
Leave  them  now,  where  no  love  can  falter. 

Fair  and  young,  with  their  heart's  desire ! 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

Would  that  we  might  be  swift  to  follow — 

We,  who  know  that  all  life  goes  still 
Now  with  grief  to  the  shadowed  hollow, 

Now  with  joy  to  the  sunny  hill — 
Theirs  is  happiness  ever  new.  .    .    . 

Close  the  book,  for  the  tale  is  over. 
Golden  head  of  the  princess  true 

On  the  golden  heart  of  the  prince  her  lover ! 


RICHARD  BURTON 

211.  Rhyme  for  Remembrance  of  May 

REMEMBER  May? 
^O,  till  no  more  a  color  tincts  the  spray. 
And  Life's  last  branch  goes  bloomless;  aye, 
my  Dear, 
So  long  I  shall  remember  that  sweet  year 
And  sweeter  meeting,  that  divine  soft  day. 

Remember  you? 
What  glamoury  of  May  I  listen  to 
Or  see,  must  have  your  voice,  plead  from  your  eyes. 
I  swear  that  month  was  dropped  from  Paradise 
To  date  our  dream,  and  bring  the  dreaming  true ! 
May  means  remembering  you! 

VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 

212.  Isle  of  Dreams 

OFAR,  far  away,  where  the  kind  winds  blow. 
Where  the  sea  calls  loud,  and  the  sky  leans 
low. 
Where  the  wild  duck  lingers  and  the  lone  gull  cries, 
A  little  isle  of  dreams,  in  solitude  lies. 

184 


VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 

Greener  than  all,  where  marsh  grasses  sweep, 
And  lullaby  waves  are  whispering  of  sleep, 
In  and  out  the  glistening  ways  each  little  white  boat 
A-rock  with  its  joy  is  a  lily-bud  afloat ! 

O,  heart,  my  heart,  if  today,  ay,  today 

We  trod  the  marsh  meadows,  down  the  leaf-strewn 

way. 
Mirrored  between  rushes,  with  sky,  bird  and  bough, 
Would  the  wind  in  the  pine  murmur,  "Child,  is  it 

thou?" 

Fold  me,  Memory,  once  as  before. 
My  feet  fare  not  with  sunset  on  the  shore. 
They  are  set  in  the  dust  of  the  hard-worn  track 
And  the  wind  of  Today,  it  bloweth  not  back. 

It  bloweth  not  back,  yet  dust  bears  to  me 
The  call  of  the  marshes  and  the  cry  of  the  sea. 
Till  the  heart  leans  and  listens, — ay,  now,  even  now,- 
For  the  wind  in  the  pine  to  murmur,  "It  is  thou !" 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


213.  April  Song 


A 


PRIL, — and  I  go  down  the  land  with  singing; 

Surges  of  song  about  me  ebb  and  flow. 

Notes  from  the  bluebird  and  the  robin  winging, 

And  blithe  wind-lyrics  that  the  wild  flowers  know. 


Jack-in-the-pulpit  perks  his  head  and  listens 
To  the  low  laughter  of  the  willow  leaf; 

And  where  the  dew  upon  the  mosses  glistens 
The  budding  bluebell  has  forgot  its  grief. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

April, — and  I  go  down  the  land  in  rapture, 
All  the  keen  rapture  olden  lovers  knew; 

What  joy,  beloved,  is  there  left  to  capture 
When  I  may  go  with  April  and  with  you ! 

DAVID  MORTON 

214.  Five  O'clock 

IN  the  old  times  of  golden-gowned  Romance, 
When  deeds  wore  grace,  and  color  clung  to  speech. 
When  days  were  rich  in  splendid  circumstance. 
And  living  had  a  gesture  and  a  reach, — 
Then  had  we  been  what  figures  in  a  tale ! 

You,  with  your  crown  of  bronze  and  cloudy  hair, 
Child  of  what  castle — till  my  dinted  mail 

Gleamed  on  your  drawbridge,  and  you  met  me  there. 

Who  knows  what  roads  we  might  have  gone  together, 

Helped  by  what  friars  to  evening  crust  and  ale 
With  candles  sputtering  in  the  windy  weather  .    .    . 
Something  .   .    .  my  soul  remembers  .    .    .   and  gives 
hail 
To  you  who  sit  there,  pouring  out  my  tea, 

Something    .    .    .    remembers    .    .    .   "Yes,   ah,  thank 
you — three." 

THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

215.  A  Song  for  Marching  Men 

OWHO  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 
The  silent  marching  men? 
A  martial  song  with  a  swing  in  it. 
With  measured  rhythm  and  ring  in  it. 
The  breath  of  a  deathless  thing  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 
186 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 

The  silent  marching  men? 
A  gallant  song  with  a  cheer  in  it, 
A  tender  song  with  a  tear  in  it, 
And  never  a  taint  of  fear  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 

The  silent  marching  men? 
Trumpet  and  bugle  and  fife  in  it, 
The  passion  and  pride  of  life  in  it, 
And  the  old  mad  joy  of  strife  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 

The  silent  marching  men? 
With  iron  and  blood  and  ruth  in  it. 
Vision  and  beauty  and  truth  in  it, 
Terrible  pathos  of  youth  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 

The  silent  marching  men? 
With  a  sacred  wordless  space  in  it, 
With  a  clinging  last  embrace  in  it, 
A  song  with  a  woman's  face  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them, — 

The  silent  marching  men? 
A  scorn  for  the  tyrant's  rod  in  it, 
A  thought  of  the  crimsoned  sod  in  it, 
A  faith  in  the  Living  God  in  it, 

A  song  for  marching  men. 


187 


EDITH  IVES  WOODWORTH 

216.  Aspiration 

UNTIL  I've  had  my  fill 
Of  bluebells  blowing  by  the  hill, 
Until  the  vision  of  the  pine 
Above  the  threading  trail  is  mine. 
Delay  my  steps  to  Thee, 
O  God  of  far  Infinity! 

Until  the  blue-eyed  children  bring 
Shadow-flowers  of  shining  spring, 
Until  from  mists,  and  fields  they  roam 
Laughing  to  the  fires  of  home. 

Delay  my  steps  to  Thee, 

O  God  of  far  Infinity ! 

Until  the  passion-flower  dies 
Her  death  into  the  blood-red  skies, 
Until  outflaming  France  is  white. 
Her  lilies  holy  in  the  light. 

Delay  my  steps  to  Thee, 

O  God  of  far  Infinity ! 

SCUDDER  MIDDLETON 

217.  The  Prisoners 

SHE  came  among  us  and  we  lived. 
As  unassuming  as  the  day 
That  seeks  no  boon  or  token, 
She  came  her  elemental  way 
And  healed  us  who  were  broken. 

The  faith  that  we  had  put  aside 
In  years  when  we  were  master  men, 
Returned  with  her  like  flowers 
The  knowing  spring  lures  back  again. 
To  help  the  tired  hours. 


SCUDDER  MIDDLETON 

So  we  began  to  see  and  know. 

She  brought  the  light  and  taught  the  truth 

To  us  poor  fools  of  duty. 

It  was  her  unimpeded  youth 

That  filled  pur  lives  with  beauty. 

They  saw  no  change  when  she  had  gone. 
But  we,  who  seemed  so  very  old, 
Had  snapped  our  chains  to  follow 
Her  face,  that  was  the  rainbow's  gold, 
Her  heart,  that  was  the  swallow. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

218.  The  Dead  of  the  Tuscania 

FAR  on  the  wild  Scotch  coast  our  boys  are  sleeping 
Between  the  solemn  cliffs  and  chanting  waters, 
Our  soldiers,  side  by  side  in  peaceful  trenches. 
Clad  in  their  khaki,  coffined  in  fresh  timber. 
Or  sheeted,  quiet  score  by  score,  in  canvas; 
Their  brief,  brave  struggle  over,  there  they  rest  them 
Where  nevermore  shall  enemy  molest  them. 
Their  country  blesses  all  who  did  them  honour, 
The  fishermen  who  sought  those  broken  bodies 
Among  the  rocks,  the  grief-wise  Scottish  women 
Who  all  night  long  before  the  burial  labored 
Stitching  with  mother-tears   a  Starry  Banner, 
That  so  their  flag  might  wave   above  them,  lying 
At  their  supreme  salute  of  loyal  dying. 
Far   from   their  prairie   farms   and   inland   cities, 
Their  sleep  is  listening  to  a  new,  strange   music, 
Thunder  of  stormy  tides  and  cry  of  seagulls, 
A  mightier  organ,  but  the  same  proud  anthem 
That  shaped  the  hero  dreams  of  childhood,  Courage, 
Faith,  Sacrifice;  and  they,  beloved,  lamented. 
Slumber  like  tired  boys  at  home,  contented. 


M.  E.  BUHLER 

219.  In  a  Colonial  Churchyard 

^O  God  the  glory!    We,  who  lie 


Ti 


Humbly  beneath  the  quiet  sky, 
Have  drawn  the  water,  hewn  the  wood. 
And  made  the  best  of  life  we  could, 
Winning  the  sweetness  born  of  strength 
And,  through  much  striving,  peace  at  length. 

Great  were  the  perils  in  our  way. 
And  hard  the  labors  of  that  day; 
But  over  all  the  blue  sky  bent, 
And  winding  through  the  meadows  went 
The  wide  **Greate  River"  to  the  sea, 
Catching  the  sunlight  gloriously! 

*  *  *  *  * 

Still  on  the  blue  horizon  sleep 
The  curving  hill  lines ;  and  there  sweep 
Cloud  shadows  over  vale  and  hill, 
Now  chased  by  sunlight,  and  now  still; 
The  locusts  chant  amid  the  trees; 
Above  the  clover  hum  the  bees; 
And  crickets  chirping  in  the  grass 
Make  sweet  the  long  days  as  they  pass. 

To  God  the  glory !    We,  who  dwelt 
Long  in  these  quiet  vales,  have  felt 
All  that  there  is  in  life  to  feel, — 
Its  depths  of  woe,  its  heights  of  weal; 
And  to  our  children's  children  leave 
Inheritance  to  joy  and  grieve. 
And  fight  triumphantly  as  we! 
To  God  the  glory  still  shall  be! 


190 


CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

220.  To  a  Solitary  Sea-Gull 

10NE  white  gull  with  sickle  wings, 
^  You  reap  for  the  heart  inscrutable  things : 
Sorrow  of  mists  and  surf  of  the  shore, 
Winds  that  sigh  of  a  nevermore; 
Fret  of  foam  and  flurry  of  rain. 
Swept  far  over  the  troubled  tide; 
Maths  of  mystery  and  gray  pain 
The  sea's  voice  ever  yields,  beside. 
Lone  white  gull  you  reap  for  the  heart 
Life's  most  sad  and  inscrutable  part. 


EUGENE  PERRY 

22 L  West  to  East 

YOU  watch  and  abide  on  the  sunrise  side; 
We  keep  the  twilight  rim. 
With  rifle  and  spade  the  trail  has  been  made, 
At  the  price  of  our  life  and  limb. 
For  the  way  was  long,  the  least  odds  great. 
And  our  only  security  shooting  straight; 
But  believe  it,  or  leave  it  as  empty  boast — 
We  hold  it  between  us,  coast  to  coast. 

Your  eyes  are  bright  with  the  morning  light; 

We  walk  in  the  sunset  shade. 

Yet,  a  touch  of  the  key  brings  us  knee  to  knee. 

Friendly  and  unafraid. 

'Tis  yours  to  read  what  the  world  intends, 

'Tis  ours  to  answer  our  common  ends; 

We're  answering  now  from  the  farthest  post — 

We'll  hold  it  between  us,  coast  to  coast. 

191 


SARA  TEASDALE 

222.  Red  Maples 

IN  the  last  year  I  have  learned 
How  few  men  are  worth  my  trust; 
I  have  seen  the  friend  I  loved 
Struck  by  death  into  the  dust, 
And  fears  I  never  knew  before 
Have  knocked  and  knocked  against  my  door- 
"I  will  hope  little  and  ask  for  less," 
I  said,  "There  is  no  happiness." 

I  have  grown  wise  at  last — but  how 
Can  I  hide  the  gleam  of  the  willow-bough? 
Or  keep  the  fragrance  out  of  the  rain 
Now  that  April  is  here  again? 
When  maples  stand  in  a  haze  of  fire 
What  can  I  say  to  the  old  desire, 
What  shall  I  do  with  the  joy  in  me 
That  is  born  out  of  agony? 

ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 

223.  Fairy  Ring 

I  STEPPED  within  the  fairy  ring. 
Where  it  was  green,  so  green ! 
Then  I  heard  the  trill  of  a  fairy  bell. 
And  the  song  of  the  Fairy  Queen. 

The  secret  that  she  murmured  me, 
To  the  trill  of  the  fairy  bell. 

Was  sweet,  so  sweet  you'd  not  believe 
If  I  should  try  to  tell. 

But  step  you  too  in  the  fairy  ring, 

And  hold  fast  to  my  hand; 
Then  we  may  hear  a  lovelier  thing. 

And  both  will  understand ! 
192 


KENNETH  RAND 

224.  "Limited  Service  Only" 

AM  not  one  of  those  the  gods'  decision 


I 


Has  chosen  for  that  highest  gift  of  all — 
The  sacrifice,  the  splendor,  and  the  vision- 
To  fight,  and  nobly  fall: 


And  yet  I  know — what  though  it  be  but  dreaming ! 
Should  the  day  hang  on  some  last  desperate  hope, 
I — I — could  lead  one  reckless  column  streaming 
Down  some  shell-tortured  slope. 

To  face  the  shadow-hell  of  Death's  own  Valley 
With  eyes  unclouded  and  unlowered  head — 
Know,  for  an  instant,  one  ecstatic  rally 
And  then  be  cleanly  dead. 


DAVID  MORTON 

225.  Maple  Avenue 

OCTOBER  streets  where  yellow  leaves  are  lying, 
The  tall,  gray  houses  and  a  ruined  wall, 
The  thinning  trees  where  gusty  winds  are  sighing. 
The  smell  of  wood  smoke  blowing  through  it  all, — 
And  you  beside  me,  silent  where  we  go 
Past  windows  showing  fires  against  the  damp, — 
We  find  no  word  to  say  the  thing  we  know: 
The  fire  unkindled  and  the  unlit  lamp. 

Often  my  love  has  been  a  storm  that  beat 

Wide  wings  about  my  heart,  too  hot  oppressed; 

But  not  today; — here,  in  this  twilit  street. 

Its  want  is  all  of  quiet  things,  and  rest: 

A  door  to  enter  in  on  such  a  night, 

And  blinds  to  draw,  and  early  fires  to  light. 

193 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

226.  October 

ODAY  of  smoke  and  flame, 
O  ancient  festal  Day ! 
Upon  the  altars  of  the  earth 
The  heavenly  fires  play. 
All  passion,  all  desire, 
Fulfillment,  prophecy, — 
Fuse  into  one  consummate  hour 
Of  quiet  ecstasy. 

Before  those  veiled  hills. 

The  lake  adoring  lies; 

And  shadowed  in  the  quiet  lake 

A  migrant  legion  flies. 

The  meadow  grass  is  mown, 

In  withered  sheaves  the  grain; 

And  where  the  corn  stood  tall  and  sweet, 

The  stubble  gleams  again. 

Again  the  hidden  rites. 

The  old  mysterious  haze; 

Again  the  leafy  miracle. 

The  sacrificial  blaze. 

Up  from  the  sacred  fires 

A  fragrant  mist  distills. 

As  incense  round  a  temple-dome. 

It  floats  about  the  hills. 

The  plow-man  drives  his  blade 

In  furrows  deep  and  long; 

**Flowers  to  the  earth,  earth  to  the  sun," 

The  plow's  primeval  song. 

My  soul,  an  upturned  field 

The  autumnal  sun  hath  blessed, 

Drinks  of  the  ancient  promises 

And  gives  herself  to  rest. 

194 


THERESA  VIRGINIA  BEARD 

O  Day  of  smoke  and  flame, 

O  sacrificial  Day! 

Upon  the  altars  of  the  earth 

The  heavenly  fires  play; 

All  passion,  all  desire. 

Fulfillment,  prophecy, — 

Fuse  into  one  consummate  hour 

Of  quiet  ecstasy. 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

227.      The  Infantry  That  Would  Not  Yield 

AH,  yes;  the  French  surprise  us  constantly; 
A  something  in  their  spirit  is  so  fine!  .    .   . 
I  was  in  Paris  when  the  famous  Line 
Went  through  after  Verdun,  and  so  could  see 
How  a  whole  people,  putting  by  its  cares, 
Came  crowding  to  the  well-loved  thoroughfares 
To  view  the  men — not  all — not  all,  alas ! — 
Who,  in  a  fateful  hour  of  fear  and  woe. 
Stood  as  a  wall  defensive  'gainst  the  foe, 
And  said: — They  shall  not  pass! 

How  surely  these  had  saved  her  Paris  knew — 

Heroes  who  fronting  Death  turned  not  aside! 

Her  heart  beat  faster  as  they  nearer  drew. 

And  swelled  with  unimagined  love  and  pride. 

Artillery  and  cavalry  went  by, — 

The  plaudits  of  the  people  reached  the  sky! 

But  for  the  infantry —     At  sight  of  these, 

A  poignant  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd: 

In  reverence  the  people's  heads  were  bowed. 

And  they  were  on  their  knees. 

Ah,  yes ;  the  French  surprise  us  constantly ! 

195 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

228.  Wonder 

THE  poets  cry,  the  preachers  drone 
Of  glories  that  are  never  heard. 
And  yet  the  moon,  a  worn  white  stone, 
Says  all  they  say  without  a  word. 

Their  praise  is  loud,  they  smite  the  air 
With  eloquent  and  clashing  zeal; 

They  force  their  love,  while  they  declare 
'Tis  only  half  of  what  they  feel. 

Their  thundering  speech  is  quickly  done; 

Hushed  by  the  deathless  hymn  that  flows 
From  the  mute  passion  of  the  sun, 
-  The  burning  silence  of  a  rose. 


M.  A.  MORTLAND 

229.  A  Prayer  in  War-Time 

GUARD  my  beloved,  God  above! 
Keep  thou  his  young  soul,  in  thy  love. 
Shining,  untarnished,  close  to  thee. 
Through  all  the  hell  that  he  must  see 
Grant  his  sweet  spirit  may  endure, 
Shield  his  high  courage,  gay  and  sure, 
With  that  quick  tenderness  of  heart — 
Our  blessing,  and  his  ready  art. 
But  if  this  breaking  world  must  be 
Cleansed  and  renewed  by  agony. 
In  sore  travail  that  none  may  spare — 
Since  weeping  is  my  woman's  share — 
In  mercy  for  his  nineteen  years 
Count  for  his  debt  of  pain  my  tears. 
As  through  the  drear  long  nights  I  keep 
Sentry  with  him  who  must  not  sleep, 

196 


M.  A.  MORTLAND 

Lonely,  afar.     To  suffer  twice 

Were  for  his  weal  so  small  a  price ! 

Take  all  my  life  may  hold  of  light 

When  a  new  dawning  shall  requite 

All  this  strife-torn,  grief-ransomed  earth, 

And  give  to  me,  so  little  worth, 

Place  with  the  broken  things  of  sorrow 

In  today's  shadow.     But  the  morrow 

Save  thou  his  splendid  youth  to  leaven: 

Guard  my  beloved,  God  of  heaven! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

230.  Autumn  Wanderers 

[ET  us  go,  love,  hand  in  hand, 

I  Wandering  through  the  autumn  land 
When  October  spreads  its  gold 
Lavishly,  bright  fold  on  fold ! 
Following  the  feet  of  morn 
Past  the  garnered  fields  of  corn, 
Past  the  crimson-pennoned  pomp 
Of  the  woodbines  in  the  swamp. 
Where  they  climb  and  where  they  cling, 
Wandering,  wandering! 

Hand  in  hand,  love,  let  us  go 
'Neath  October's  gleam  and  glow 
When  the  mellow  south  winds  swoon 
In  the   languid   heart   of  noon! 
And  there  is  no  sound  at  all 
Save  a  hidden  bird's  far  call 
("Whip-poor-will,   oh,  whip-poor-will") 
Luring  us  to  mount  the  hill 
With  its  iterative  ring, 

Wandering,  wandering ! 


TEl 

Li 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

Let  us  go,  love,  hand  in  hand. 
Homeward  o'er  the  ripened  land 
When  October's  shadows  deep 
Beckon  to  the  House  of  Sleep, 
Where  is  rapture,  where  is  rest. 
The  content  that  we  hold  best. 
With  the  harvest  moon  above 
Telling  its  old  tale  of  love. 
While  the  minstrel  crickets  sing, 
Wandering,  wandering! 


GEORGE  STERLING 

23  L  A  Song  of  Friendship 

FROM  earth's  horizon,  dim  and  wide 
The  stained  moon  swings  free. 
Castor  and  Pollux,  side  by  side, 
Go  downward  to  the  sea. 

Thy  good  sword  to  my  needj  O  friend ! 

And  my  strong  shield  to  thine. 
How  bright,  before  the  darkness  end. 

The  star-companions  shine ! 

Two  hearts  may  greatly  dare  the  West, 
Where  one  might  know  dismay, — 

Two  barks  join  surely  in  the  Quest, 
Where  one  might  miss  the  way. 

198 


GEORGE  STERLING 

Face  thou  with  me  the  immortal  sun. 
And  counsel  me  by  night! 

In  wassail  and  the  deed  well  done 
We  two  shall  fare  a-right. 

Ever  wast  thou  the  clean,  blue  blade, 
The  comrade  of  the  skies, 

The  heart's,  the  hand's  abiding  aid. 
With  truth  in  heart  and  eyes. 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

232.  Belgium 


I 


HAD  a  dream  of  Greatness;  and  I  saw — 
Not  one  enthroned,  before  whose  golden  crown 
And  jeweled  scepter  many  bowed  them  down; 


Not  one  full-armored  who,  more  fearful  awe 
Inspiring,  with  war's  pestilential  breath 
Sowed  havoc  as  he  moved,  despair  and  death; 

Nay,  in  my  lofty  dream,  such  greatness  paled 
Before  the  image  of  one  nobly  fair, 
Despite  torn  raiment  and  disheveled  hair, 

The  hope  within  whose  eyes  had  never  failed. 
Victim  of  unrelenting  Tyranny 
That  fain  would  hold  her  captive,  she  is  free — 

Stronger,  I  wis,  than  e'en  her  tyrants  be — 
Because  of  something  that  hath  never  died: 
Her  glorious,  tameless  soul,  grief-crucified! 

199 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

233.  A  Rose  for  France 

SOLDIERS  three  at  a  county  fair; 
Soldiers — the  eldest  is  only  a  boy — 
Come  to  saunter  and  smile  and  stare 
And  perhaps  to  let  the  girls  enjoy 
The  set  of  the  khaki  new  and  smart 
On  the  strong  young  shoulders  held  so  square. 
Clean  and  sturdy  of  limb  and  heart, 
Soldiers  three  at  a  county  fair. 


A  Red  Cross  booth  where  the  workers  sit 

All  in  white,  and  among  them  three 

Gentle  old  women  who  knit  and  knit 

In  a  quaint  sweet  dress  from  over  the  sea — 

Sorrowful  flotsam  of  ravaged  France, 

Under  their  kerchiefs  woes  untold. 

And  their  capfrills  hide  from  the  careless  glance 

The  patient  eyes  of  the  stricken  old. 

How  should  a  boy's  heart  understand 
The  glory  and  grief  of  those  knitters  gray? 
A  moment's  halt  for  the  blithe  young  band 
Then  they  drift  with  the  crowd  away — 
Ah,  but  see!  they  are  back  again, 
A  crimson  rose  in  the  hand  of  each, 
And  slowly,  clumsily,  as  it  were  pain 
To  put  his  soul  into  speech, 

"We  fellows  thought — "  so  the  eldest  spoke 

With  a  flush  that  burned  to  his  close-cropped  hair, 

"That  the  old  French  ladies — "  his  young  voice 

broke — 
"Should  have  a  posy  to  wear." 
France,  O  France!  did  you  feel  that  day 
The  beating  heart  of  this  land  of  ours 
Close  at  your  side  in  the  heat  of  the  fray, — 
Our  love  in  the  blood-red  flowers? 

200 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Those  lads — and  others — shall  bring,  maybe, 

A  brighter  rose  to  your  breast,  O  France, 

When  shoulder  to  shoulder  the  foe  shall  see 

Your  sons  and  our  own  advance — 

The  rose  you  have  scattered  ungrudgingly 

On  the  fields  where  at  last  we  may  bear  our  part — 

A  rose  with  the  thorns  of  Calvary, 

And  its  root  in  a  mothers  heart. 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COAXES 
234.  A   Soldier 


D 


EAR  God,  I  raised  my  boy  to  be  a  soldier; 

I  tried  to  make  him  strong  of  will  and  true; 
I  told  him  many  a  tale  of  deeds  heroic — 
The  noblest  and  the  sweetest  tales  I  knew. 


In  thought,  he  shared  the  charge  at  Balaclava, 

With  the  Swiss  Guard,  o'ermastered  coward  Death, 

With  Gordon  all  renounced,  with  Scott  and  Peary 
Breathed  in  his  ardent  youth  heroic  breath. 

A  little  lad,  he  wept  for  wounded  Sidney, 

For  Bayard,  sans  reproche,  who  knew  no  fears, 

Yet,  hurt  himself,  if  one  but  said,— "My  Soldier  !"— 
Straightway  he  smiled  and  swallowed  down  his  tears. 

I  taught  him  that  the  brave  are  full  of  mercy; 

That  gentleness  and  love  to  strength  belong; 
That  honour  is  the  only  High  adventure, 

And  goodness  the  one  everlasting  song! 

And  so  I  raised  my  boy  to  be  a  Soldier: 

A  patriot  soldier,  brave,  devoted,   free! 
And  now,  and  now, — with  grateful  trust,  O  Father! 
I  give  him  to  my  Country  and  to  Thee ! 


HAROLD  CRAWFORD  STEARNS 
2S5.  Echoes 


M 


Y  two  old  salts  are  funny  chaps; 

From  dawn  till  dark  they  sit  outdoors 
With  brass-bound  books  upon  their  laps 
And  talk  (I  think)  of  pirate  wars. 


I  watch  them  from  my  shadowed  lawn 
Across  the  sprinkled,  muddy  street, 

Their  well-worn  blouses  loosely  drawn 
And  carpet  slippers  on  their  feet. 

Oh,  they  are  garrulous  enough 
When  no  one  comes  to  interfere, 

Because  their  voices,  quick  and  gruff. 
Are  quite  the  only  sounds  I  hear. 

Yet  when  I  cross  and  join  them  there 

Where  cool,  white  boughs  whisk  to  and  fro. 

They  kindly  smile,  but  scorn  to  share 
The  meanest  tale  of  all  they  know. 

We  damn  the  heat  in  quiet  tones  .   .    . 

And  each  of  us,  as  sure  as  doom. 
Is  dancing  under  skull  and  bones 

To  clang  of  sword  and  cannon  boom ! 


RICHARD  BURTON 

With  a  Brooch 

I  PLACE  this  bauble,  shot  with  lovely  light. 
Against  your  bosom  and  its  soft  unrest. 
You'll  wear  it,  may  be,  when  some  summer  night 
By  wandering  odors  and  bland  airs  is  blest; 
And  those  who  look,  shall  say  in  hushed  delight: 
"It  has  a  double  beauty — on  her  breast." 

202 


GEORGE  STERLING 

237.  A  Morning  Hymn 

DESPITE  the  Fates'  imputed  ban,— 
Despite  all  evil  that  we  see, 
Let  us  have  faith  in  good  to  be. 
And  in  the  ascendant  soul  of  man ! 

No  chain  shall  bind,  no  distance  bar 
The  winged  heart,  the  fearless  feet 
That  from  the  midnight  ran  to  meet 

The  morn  below  the  morning  star. 

Tho'  sages  whisper  him  dismay, — 
Tho'  many  doubt  and  many  drowse, 
The  great  foundations  of  his  House 

Man  in  his  vision  plans  today. 

The  singing  legions  yet  shall  pour 
From  out  the  Future's  shadowy  gates, 
To  meet  the  challenge  of  new  Fates 

And  issues  of  a  vaster  War. 

To  fashion  man  his  shining  mail, 
A  thousand  thousand  anvils  ring; 
From  out  his  mills  new  voices  sing. 

Assuring  that  he  shall  not  fail. 

Prate  not  of  leisures  to  the  sea. 

Nor  taunt  with  age  the  blinding  sun ! 
A  myriad  years  his  course  has  run ; 

A  myriad  seasons  yet  shall  be. 

On  vassal  sea  and  conquered  soil 

Shall  man  lay  mighty  hands  and  sure; 
His  flaming  purpose  shall  endure, 

Who  yet  shall  yoke  the  sun  to  toil. 

203 


GEORGE  STERLING 

Lit  by  that  sun  within  his  brain, 

His  will  shall  storm  the  giants'  hold 
Where  hide  the  Energies  untold, 

And  he  shall  portion  each  its  chain. 

Before  his  sword's  astounding  thrust, 
Deathward  his  ancient  foes  shall  reel. 
Where  stranger  wars  demand  his  steel, 

In  realms  now  formless  in  the  dust. 

No  pain  shall  baffle  nor  deny 

The  legions  of  his  victory. 

"Vitality!    Vitality!" 
The  billows  and  the  forges  cry. 

All  good  the  prophets  could  foretell 
He  hears  his  engines  now  repeat, 
And  from  the  pathless,  holy  wheat, 

The  promise,  "All  shall  yet  be  well !" 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 
238.  The  Young  Squire 


I 


HAVE  sung  me  a  stave,  a  stave  or  two, 

I  have  drunk  me  a  stoop  of  wine, 
I  have  roystered  across  a  world  that  was  dew 
And  a  sea  that  was  sunlight's  brine. 


And  now  I'll  go  down  where  the  need  is  not 
Of  a  singing  heart,  but  a  sword ; 

I'll  fight  where  the  dead  men  welter  and  rot 
With  the  hard-pressed  host  of  the  Lord. 

204 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER  PERCY 

And  should  I  come  back  again,  'twill  be 

With  accolade  and  spurs, 
And  many  a  tale  of  chivalry, 

And  the  deeds  of  warriors. 

And  should  I  not,  O  break  for  me 
No  buds  nor  funeral  boughs — 

I  go  with  the  noblest  company 
That  ever  death  did  house. 


DAVID  MORTON 

239.        A  Gentleman  from  Stratford  Sees 
the  Play 

FOR  all  the  crowd  that  packed  the  house  tonight, 
Marked  you  the  vacant  seat  none  came  to  claim, — 
The  fourth  row  from  the  front,  and  to  the  right? — 
Vacant,  I  call  it  now  .   .   .  but  I  could  name 
A  thing  that  happened  when  the  lights  were  off. 

Of  one  who  walked  in  buckles  down  the  aisle, 
Wearing  a  great  hat  that  he  scorned  to  doff. 

And  richly  kerchiefed,  wrist  and  neck,  in  style. 

Once  in  the  play — I  swear  it — once  I  heard, 
Along  the  tumult  of  our  loud  applause, 

A  sly  and  ghostly  chuckle  at  a  word 

That      Falstaff     mouthed      with     those      outrageous 
jaws.   .    .    . 

I  think  he  liked  the  play  .    .    .  and  stayed,  no  doubt, 
Long  after  us,  and  lingered,  going  out. 


HAROLD  CRAWFORD  STEARNS 
240.  The  Schoolmaster 

FOUR  o'clock  and  work  is  over; 
All  the  little  lads  and  lasses 
Wander  home  through  the  clover, 
Through  the  grasses.   .    .    . 

And  I  can  dream — 

Of  what? 

Well,  Camelot, 

Or  border-thieves 

Who  have  crossed  the  stream 

And  catch  the  gleam 

Of  a  town  ahead — oh,  each  horse  heaves 

For  the  day  is  hot!  .    .    . 

Or  let  me  dream  of  a  city  street. 

Where  rich-man,  poor-man,  beggar-man  meet; 

A  street  just  shining  after  a  rain. 

Where  women,  very  fair  and  sweet. 

Flash  by  in  high  disdain.  .    .   . 

Four  o'clock  and  work  is  over; 

All  the  little  lads  and  lasses 
Wander  home  through  the  clover. 

Through  the  grasses.  .   .   . 

And  I  can  dream.  .   .   . 

Some  morning  they  will  find  the  door 
Bolted;  and  when  the  yokels  pour 
Into  the  room,  they  will  see 
Sorry  me 

Lying  there  with  my  poor,  old  head 
Open  wide,  and  my  dreams  on  the  floor 
And  all  of  us,  who  were  under-fed. 
Quite  dead. 

206 


SARA  TEASDALE 

241.  In  Memory  of  J.  L,  W. 

SHE  has  gone  out  upon  a  quiet  journey 
Seeking  a  goal  too  great  for  us  to  know, 
But  she  will  not  be  tired,  for  there  is  only 
Rest  on  the  roads  where  she  will  go. 

In  the  Still  Country  that  she  travels  over 
Past  the  last  star  lifted  against  the  night. 

There  will  be  many  a  welcome  to  await  her, 
Greetings,  and  many  a  friendly  light. 

To  her  who  gave  such  welcoming  to  strangers 
Here  on  the  earth,  from  her  heart's  gracious 
store, 

Surely   to  her   Infinity  will  open 
Door  after  glowing  door. 


WITTER  BYNNER 

242.  Fire-Music 

SPARROW  in  the  heart  of  birch, 
Ghost  who  once  at  set  of  sun 
Whistled  it  your  home  and  church, 
Though  you  see  it  now  undone. 

Yet  with  your  memorial  mirth 
You  can  sing  like  a  caress, 

"Never  shall  a  bit  of  earth 

Die  and  change  to  nothingness !" 

Spirit  in  me! — when  I  die. 

Will  you  laugh  with  equal  glee? — 

Will  you  whistle,  where  I  lie. 
Something  of  the  sort  for  me? 


F 


JOHN  McCLURE 

243.  Ballad  of  Broken  Tombs 

(A  Chaunt  of  Easter-Eve) 

JRIEST  Caiaphas  brought  one  hundred  men 
Clad  glittering  and  bright 
With  beaten  blades  and  javelins 
To  guard  the  tomb  by  night. 

**Ye  must  seal  close  the  opening, 

Nor  let  His  body  pass. 
It  is  not  fit  that  He  should  rise 

And  walk,"  said  Caiaphas. 

One  hundred  soldiers  clad  in  steel 

Set  seals  upon  the  door, 
They  bolted  close  the  opening 

And  rolled  a  stone  before. 

"This  stone  will  weigh  one  hundred  ton; 

His  body  cannot  pass. 
The  father  of  all  heresy 

Is  dead,"  said  Caiaphas. 

The  high-priest  vanished  solemnly 

As  one  who  has  his  will. 
The  soldiers  sat  them  down  to  watch 

Beneath  the  quiet  hill. 
A  strange  wind  quivered  in  the  grass 

And  all  the  world  was  still. 

The  world  was  quiet  utterly 

Around  them  and  afar: 
The  soldiers  could  see  naught  to  watch 

Save  the  new  moon  and  a  star.  .   .   . 

Betwixt  the  midnight  and  the  morn 
When  the  silence  was  most  deep 

An  angel  walked  among  them  all 
And  touched  their  eyes  with  sleep, 

208 


JOHN  McCLl/RE 

An  angel  that  had  touched  them  all 

To  make  their  vision  dim 
Sang  low  before  the  sepulcher 

"Elohim!    Elohim!" 

Then  hills  and  heavens  echoed  loud 

With  an  unearthly  din: 
The  still  tombs  of  the  country-side 

Were  shaken  from  within. 

And  sudden  in  Jerusalem 

Aghast  in  their  winding-sheets 

The  dead  who  had  been  dead  so  long 
Came  singing  in  the  streets. 

And  the  bolts  of  one  tomb  were  broken 

And  the  stone  rent  into  two 
While  the  soldiers  slept  in  the  moonlight 

And  the  Christ  came  walking  through.- 

He  walked  so  very  quietly 

It  seemed  He  never  had 
Spent  three  days  in  a  sepulcher 

And  never  had  been  dead. 

He  walked  so  quietly  between 
They  could  not  hear  His  feet 

And  He  walked  toward  Jerusalem 
Where  the  dead  sang  in  the  street. 

Then  rose  the  soldiers  open-eyed 
For  a  great  song  startled  them. 

An  angel  singing  within  a  tomb 
"Elohim!    Elohim!" 

They  rose  from  sleep  in  terror 

But  nothing  met  their  eye 
Save  an  open  door  in  the  hillside 

And  the  white  dawn  and  the  sky. 


DAVID  MORTON 

244.       The  Kings  Are  Passing  Deathward 

THE  Kings  are  passing  deathward  in  the  dark 
Of  days  that  had  been  splendid  where  they  went ; 
Their  crowns  are  captive  and  their  courts  are  stark 
Of  purples  that  are  ruinous,  now,  and  rent. 
For  all  that  they  have  seen  disastrous  things: 

The  shattered  pomp,  the  split  and  shaken  throne, 
They  cannot  quite  forget  the  way  of  Kings: 
Gravely  they  pass,  majestic  and  alone. 

Magnificent  in  guilt,  their  faces  set 

Toward  the  eternal  night  of  restless  shapes 

They  walk  in  awful  splendor,  regal  yet, 

Wearing  their  crimes  like  rich  and  kingly  capes.  .   .   . 

Curse  them  or  taunt,  they  will  not  hear  or  see; 
The  Kings  are  passing  deathward:  let  them  be. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

245.  Embers 


N 


OW  winds  from  polar  field  and  floe 

Sweep  down,  remorseless  in  their  ire. 
Still  burns  beneath  the  ice  and  snow 
A  slumberous  heart  of  fire. 


It  only  waits  the  kindling  breath. 
It  only  waits  the  magic  name, 

The  lyric  word  that  quickeneth, 
To  blow  it  into  flame. 

Sudden  upon  some  dawning  hour, 
.  When  April  speaks,  we  shall  behold 
The  embers  leap  to  radiant  flower 
In  gleaming  crocus-gold ! 

210 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

246.  Asleep 

THESE  hands,  two  nimble  butterflies — 
I  never  saw  them  at  rest; 
Nor  knew  a  tide  so  regular 
Could  move  through  your  stormy  breast. 
You  loved  to  meet  life  dancing 
With  glistening  steps,  till  all 
Your  fluent  body  seemed  a  curve 
In  a  restless  waterfall. 

And  now  you  lie  here  so  coldly, 

So  unbelievably  still; 
A  stone  on  a  marble  river. 

Ice  on  a  wintry  hill. 
Something  has  made  your  beauty 

Inscrutable  and  grave; 
Holding  your  once  warm  body 

In  the  curve  of  a  frozen  wave. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

247.  The  Piper 

ACROSS  the  hilltops  to  the  south 
A  buoyant  breath  is  borne 
From  one  who  sets  a  pipe  to  mouth 
And  blows  against  the  morn. 

He  needs  must  be  a  j^oungling  thing 
To  sound  so  blithe  a  strain; 

Hark,  how  the  streams  are  answering 
Through  shimmering  skeins  of  rain ! 

From  root  to  twig  the  sap-floods  leap 
That  have  been  dormant  long, 

For  he  has  cleft  their  deep  white  sleep 
As  with  the  sword  of  song. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

Nearer  his  mounting  measures  come ; 

The  grasses  all  deploy, 
And  dance  in  green  delirium 

To  silver  notes  of  joy. 

And  you  may  hear  the  four  winds  cry 
From  shore  to  shining  shore, — 

"Put  all  your  wintry  sorrows  by. 
For  Spring  is  at  your  door!" 


MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES 

248.  David 

DAVID  was  a  shepherd  lad,  beautiful  as  you, 
Sang  within  a  shadowed  tent  to  sooth  a  king's  un- 
rest. 
Oh,  the  bashful  years  in  which  he  made  the  songs  and 
hoarded  them. 
By  the  other  shepherd  lads  all  unguessed. 

David's  song  is  in  a  book,  for  stupid  folk  to  bow  before. 
Folk  who  think  it  wisdom,  which  is  only  lovely  song. 

You  are  kin  to  him,  you  see  beauty  in  a  little  moon. 
In  branches  bent  to  lash  you  with  each  faint  gray 
thong. 

David,  when  he  found  his  songs — did  he  use  to  practice 
them 
For  a  little  shepherd  maid  who  marveled  at  each  line? 
When  he  left  his  humble  task,  and  drew  the  king  from 
weariness — 
She  who   heard   the   songs   first,   was   her   pride   like 
mine? 

212 


CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 

249.  Zuloaga 

SARDONIC  master,  you  that  dare  betray 
With  piercing  vision  and  relentless  hand 
The  mournful  features  of  a  sombre  land 
Where  youth  and  love  and  hope  have  had  their  day ; 
Your  silken  senoritas,  lissome,  gay. 

With  soulless  eyes  inanimately  bland; 

Your  tinsel  toreadors  that  idly  stand 

Against  the  mountains'  monotone  of  gray; — 

What  are  they  but  the  puppets  of  romance 
Worn  threadbare,  tarnished  by  an  evil  time, 

But  gallant  still  for  all  their  sad  mischance; 

A  pageant  of  the  glories  that  remain 

Where  towered  once,  exultant  and  sublime. 

The  grim  and  splendid  chivalry  of  Spain. 

MAHLON  LEONARD  FISHER 

250.  Should  Beauty  Sleep 

SHOULD  Beauty  sleep,  and  God  no  longer  care 
If  crocuses  be  plentiful  or  few; 
Or  violets  their  purple  vows  renew. 
Or  nevermore  adorn  the  meadow's  hair; 
Or  oaks  refuse  to  put  on  fabrics  fair, 
When  that  the  Spring  is  usual  in  the  land; 
And  there  be  stretched   from   Heaven   a  restraining 

hand, 
Though  April  were  but  half-way  down  her  stair, — • 

Then  men  would,  of  a  sudden,  see,  through  tears. 
How  barren  are  the  ways  which  they  must  go, 
Forgetting,  in  that  hour,  when  the  soft  flow 
And  endless  ebb  of  ocean  no  one  hears. 
How  faint  the  praises  given  them  who  kept 
The  broad  world  beautiful,  and  never  slept ! 

213 


OSCAR  C.  WILLIAMS 

25  L  Rain  and  Night 

|AIN  and  night  and  tear-eyed  mists, 


R 


But  high,  oh  high  above  them — hark  !— 
The  sobbing  of  the  unseen  stars 
Like  children  crying  in  the  dark. 

Rain  and  night  and  cold-cheeked  winds 

That  wander,  careless,  through  each  street 

To  watch  the  masquerading  of 
Innumerable  little  feet. 

For  where  the  lamp-posts  pave  the  stones 
With  gleaming,  stolen  wealth,  behold ! — 

The  lightning-footed  ripples  dance 
A  masquerade  of  black  and  gold ! 

And  I  look  on,  and  strange  thoughts  come 
Like  dreams  that  have  no  time  and  place, 

But  hover  round  a  memory 
Of  some  beloved  face. 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

252,  For  Us,  the  Living 

THEY  look  upon  us  through  the  mystic  door — 
Those  who  have  passed,  those  who  shall 
come  to  birth — 
Waiting  for  us,  the  living,  to  restore 
Beauty  and  fruitfulness  to  ravaged  earth. 
Where  there  were  trees,  there  must  be  trees  again, 
Sweet  servants  of  the  soil's  imperious  needs. 
Because  the  spring  must  not  return  in  vain 
Nor  autumn's  bounty  waste  itself  in  weeds. 

214 


AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

Where  there  was  hope,  there  must  again  be  hope, 

Immortal  beauty  shining  through  the. scars. 

Because  however  men"  may  fall  and  grope 

They  must  not  lose  the  everlasting  stars. 

It  were  a  work  for  angels  to  revive 

The  orchard's  fragrant  ecstasy  of  flowers, 

To  bid  the  murdered  forest  wake  alive — 

A  work  for  angels — and  God  makes  it  ours; 

A  still  diviner  labor  to  reflower 

The  spirit's  orchards  after  hate's  red  blight. 

And  He,  the  Lord  of  Life,  who  understands 

All  things,  has  laid  it  in  our  faltering  hands. 

O  Will  of  God,  upon  our  hands  be  power !    . 

O  Love  of  God,  within  our  hearts  be  light ! 


STOKELY  S.  FISHER 

253.  A   Voice  from  the  Twilight 

WE  of  the  twilight  years  that  speed  toward  night 
Are  misers  hoarding  time ;  we  would  not  rest, 
But  plead  that  we  may  not  be  dispossessed 
Of  opportunity  to  use  the  light 
Still  shining  for  us.    Though  the  hair  fade  white. 
May  not  the  red  flame  pulsing  in  the  breast 
Burn  bright  as  ever?     Put  us  to  the  test! 
We  want  no  arm  to  lean  on,  but  our  right ! 
We  who  have  learned  to  live  by  living,  ask 
No  privilege  now  but  to  complete  our  task; 
Our  place  of  use  and  service  we  would  keep. 
The  finer  skill  may  help  the  failing  strength; 
Oh  let  us  live  life  to  its  utmost  length, 
And  then,  when  comes  the  sleep  time,  let  us  sleep ! 

215 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 
254.  The  Swallows 

(Paris,    April,    1918) 

OVER  the  roofs  the  swallows  fly 
In  the  quiet  evening  air; 
Though  just  above  the  homes  of  men 
They  have  not  any  care. 

The  women  on  the  balconies 
That  watch  and  seem  to  see — 

The  birds  could  touch  them  with  their  wings, 
They  stand  so  quietly. 

So  quietly!    But  if  the  birds 

Had  cognizance  of  pain, 
Could  hear  the  prayers  that  quiver  past, 

They  would  not  fly  again. 


HERBERT  J.  HALL 
255,  Slim  Flutes  and  Viols  Gay 

|LAY  up,  play  up  to  the  rising  moon 
Slim  flutes  and  viols  gay — 
Silent  you  were  in  the  sultry  noon. 
Wake  now  at  the  close  of  day. 
Tall  trees  await  your  tuneful  sound 
With  branches  crossed  and  bare. 
The  great  moon,  still  and  cool  and  round, 
Swings  low  to  your  far  fan-fare. 
How  little  in  the  world's  great  night 
Your  simple  pipings  are — 
How  little,  yet  how  sure  and  right, 
Right  as  the  evening  star. 


P' 


216 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


[The  reference  is  to  the  number  of  the  poem] 


Bates,  Katharine  Lee,  218. 
Beach,  Joseph  Warren,  15, 

83,  108,  138,  152. 
Beard,    Theresa    Virginia, 

111,  159,  202,  215,  226. 
Bellows,   Henry  Adams, 

73,  79,  150. 
Borst,  Richard  Warner, 

16,  38,  74. 
Boutelle,  Grace  Hodsdon, 

130. 
Bouve,    Pauline    Carring- 

ton,  25. 
Brown,    Abbie    Farwell, 

223. 
Buhler,  M.  E.,  81,  97,  219. 
Burr,    Amelia   Josephine, 

30,  36,  46,  50,  51,  52,  58, 

66,    69,    75,   84,    94,    95, 

101,   112,  146,  151,  182, 

194,  233,  252. 
Burton,  Richard,  1,  28,  85, 

91,  93,  107,  110,  131,  211, 

236. 
Bynner,   Witter,   102,   126, 

135,  188,  193,  242. 
Carman,  Bliss,  198. 
Carter,  John,  45. 
Cawein,   Madison,   87,   104, 

109,  117,  118,  123,  124. 
Clark,  Badger,  80,  99,  133, 

163,  204. 


Cloud,    Virginia   Wood- 
ward, 200,  212. 

Coates,  Florence  Earle, 
89,  103,  127,  134,  148, 
183,  205,  227,  232,  234. 

Cohen,  Nina  Morals,  5. 

Crozier,  Harold  B.,  18. 

Davies,    Mary    Carolyn, 
248. 

Davis,  Florence  Boyce, 
185. 

Edgar,  William  C,  144. 

Finerty,  Louise   Foley, 
161. 

Fisher,  Mahlon  Leonard, 
44,  68,  82,  86,  98,  100, 
114,   120,  139,  166,  250. 

Fisher,  Stokely  S.,  105, 
186,  253. 

Griffith,  William,  171,  172, 
173,  174,  175. 

Guiterman,  Arthur,  177. 

Hall,  Herbert  J.,  67,  168, 
170,  196,  255. 

Hall,  James  Norman,  106. 

Harding,   Ruth  Guthrie, 
149,  153. 

Helburn,  Theresa,  154. 

Higgins,    Aileen    Cleve- 
land, 26. 

Howard,  Ethel  Barstow, 
77. 

217 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Howe,   Herbert  Crombie, 

140. 
Jenks,  Tudor,  155. 
Kauifman,   Reginald 

Wright,  35,  55,  62. 
Kauffman,  Ruth,  49. 
Kenyon,  James  B.,  143, 

156. 
Kilmer,  Joyce,  78,  96,  147. 
Lanyon,  Helen,  29,  47. 
Lawrence,   Josephine,    181. 
Lee,  Agnes,  27,  31,  63,  71. 
Long,  Lily  A.,  12. 
McCarthy,    John    Russell, 

167,  207. 
McClure,  John,  243. 
McGill,  Anna   Blanche, 

128. 
Meredith,  George,  20,  21, 

22. 
Middleton,    Scudder,    162, 

217. 
Mortland,  M.  A.,  229. 
Morton,   David,    199,   214, 

225,  239,  244. 
Nesbit,  E.,  72. 
Northrop,   George  Norton, 

56,  119. 
O'Conor,  Norreys  Jephson, 

23,  24,  32,  48,  209. 
Percy,  William  Alexander, 

179,    184,    187,    191,    208, 

238,  254. 
Perry,  Eugene,  221. 
Phelps,  Ruth  Shepard,  33, 

61,  92. 
Phillips,  Stephen,  113,  142. 
Porterfield,    G.    A.,    190, 

197. 
Price,  Warwick  James,  65. 
Rand,  Kenneth,  90,  224. 
Rice,  Cale  Young,  195, 

220. 


Rollit,  Charles  Carter,  9. 
Ryder,  C.  T,  70,  145. 
Saxon,  Helen  A.,  17,  37. 
Scheffauer,  Ethel  Talbot, 

88,  158. 
ScoUard,  Clinton,  115,  141, 

157,   201,   213,   230,   245, 

247. 
Shepard,  Odell,  137. 
Smith,  Louis  Worthing- 

ton,  8,  76. 
Stearns,  Harold  Craw- 
ford, 235,  240. 
Sterling,  George,  231,  237. 
Stockton,  James  Le  Roy, 

125. 
Stork,  Charles  Wharton, 

249. 
Stringer,  Arthur,  41. 
Teasdale,    Sara,    122,    164, 

165,  180,  192,  222,  241. 
Terry,  Edward  H.  S.,  42. 
Thompson,  Edith,  3,  6,  19, 

40,  43,  59. 
Untermeyer,    Louis,    178, 

206,  228,  246. 
Updegraff,  Allan,  34. 
Upson,   Arthur,  4,   7,   10, 

11,  13,  14. 
Walsh,  Thomas,  39,  57,  60. 
Washburn,   Beatrice,   189. 
Wells,  Stewart,  129. 
Wheelock,  John  Hall,  203. 
Whitney,   Josephine,   64. 
Widdemer,  Margaret,   116, 

121,  160,  169,  176,  210. 
Wilkinson,    Marguerite, 

132,  136. 
Williams,  Oscar  C,  251. 
Wilson,  Margaret  Ade- 
laide, 53,  54. 
Woodworth,  Edith  Ives, 

2,  216. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  bird  ran  up  the  onyx  steps  of  night     . 

A  friend  of  mine  is  dead  at  length  today 

A  hill  said  to  another  hill 

A  little  house  that  sheltered  lies     . 

A  monk  once  labored  in  a  lonely  cell 

A  sweet,  deep  sense  of  mystery  filled  the  wood 

A  thin  voice  in  the  darkness  all  night  long 

A  town  called  Heart's  Content 

A  wilding  little  stubble  flower 

Across  the  hilltops  to  the  south 

Across  the  wind-swept  winter  sky    . 

Ah,  heart,  I  know  you're  tired,  I  too  am  torn 

Ah!  was  the  soul  of  Cain 

Ah,  yes;  the  French  surprise  us  constantly 

All  in  the  far-set  Shadow-land  it  lies 

All  loved  and  lovely  women  dear  to  rhyme 

All  the  maples  were  aflame     .  . 

Along  the  edge  of  dusk  he'd  hoot  and  howl 

And  if  you  came? — Oh  I  would  smile     . 

April, — and  I  go  down  the  land  with  singing 

As  an  old  mercer  in  some  sleepy  town     . 

As  I  stole  out  of  Babylon  beyond  the  stolid  w 

As  I  was  hoeing  a  hill  of  corn 

As  in  a  belfry  let  me  live 

As   the   gypsy   carts   were   following   a   blown 

drizzled   road 
As  we  roae  down  to  Asola 
Ay,  go  your  ways,  my  lord. 
^'Because,"  He  cries  today. 
Because  I  have  loved  life 
Below  a  little  shadowed  hill     . 
Broadway  roars  above  my  head 
Brother  fools  from  everywhere 
Christmas  tide  is  a  time  of  cold 


arders 
and 


Look  where  he  struts 
for  you" 


219 


No. 
206 
116 
125 
200 

24 

82 

88 
135 

21 
247 
129 

42 
175 
227 

44 
199 

12 

34 
160 
213 

68 
115 

83 
140 

59 

189 

94 

55 

151 

2 

33 

28 

1 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Come  in  from  the  plowing  and  the  sowing 
Come,  let's  climb  into  our  attic 
David  was  a  shepherd  lad 
Dear  God,  I  raised  my  boy  to  be  a  soldier 
Despite  the  Fates'  imputed  ban 
Did  you  deceive  me?    Did  I  trust    . 
Do  you  know  them.  Old- World  Brother  . 
Down  the  long  road  we  went 
Each  April  night,  when  winds  will  not  be  still 
Each  at  her  post  we  women  stand 
Earth  buffets  and  harasses 
Elfin  rings  are  gone,  and  the  ashen  ring  is  blowing 
Ever  green  and  ever  murmurous  they  stand  against 
the  west     ....... 

Far,  far  from  here  the  church  bells  ring 
Far  on  the  wild  Scotch  coast  our  boys  are  sleeping 
For  all  the  crowd  that  packed  the  house  tonight 
Four  o'clock  and  work  is  over 
From  earth's  horizon,  dim  and  wide 
From  labors  through  the  night,  outworn 
From  the  Unseen  I  come  to  you  tonight 
From  what  old  ballad  or  from  what  rich  frame 
Further  and  further  we  leave  the  scene 
Gentle  tourangelle,  Renee 
God  has  a  house  three  streets  away 
"God  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen"     . 
Guard  my  beloved,  God  above! 
Haggard  faces  and  trembling  knees 
Hark  you  such  sound  as  quivers  ?     . 
He  did  not  come  in  the  red  dawn     . 
He  is  but  biding  here  beneath  the  sod 
He  passed  along  our  village  street 
Head  down,  ears  back,  like  a  leashed  Great  Dane 
Here  through  years  she  dwelt  apart 
House  of  the  past,  house  of  the  sunken  stair  . 
How  often  have  I  heard  the  wind  night-long  . 
I  am  not  one  of  those  the  gods'  decision  . 
I  am  rich,  but  not  in  gold 
I  cannot  see  what  many  see     . 
I  climb  the  hill's  steep  stairway 
I  feel  the  spring  far  off,  far  off 
I  gave  you  all  my  heart,  so  long  ago 
I  gazed  at  you  and  saw  your  eyes  were  sad 
220 


No. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


I  had  a  dream  of  Greatness     . 

I  had  a  heart  as  good  as  gold 

I  have  remembered  beauty  in  the  night    . 

I  have  sung  me  a  stave  ..... 

I  heard  a  bird  at  break  of  day 

I  leant  out  over  a  ledging  cliff 

I  place  this  bauble,  shot  with  lovely  light 

I  sing  the  Men  of  Iron  ..... 

I  stepped  within  the  fairy  ring 

I  thank  you,  Elm  and  Beech  and  all  my  friends 

I  that  have  lived  and  loved  life  well 

I  thought  I  had  forgotten       .... 

"I,  too,  was  born  in  Arcady"  .... 

I  would  not  have  a  god  come  in       .  .         . 

In  dreams  you  come  to  mock  me     . 

In  glittering  gold  and  burnished  bronze  they  stand 

In  innermost  mute  closures  of  the  sea     . 

In  the  dim  east  where  weed-brown  rocks  lie  bare 

In  the  last  year  I  have  learned 

In  the  old  times  of  golden-gowned  Romance     . 

Into  a  garden  that  I  know  and  love 

*^Is  there  such  a  place  as  Grenstone?"     . 

Ithaca,  Ithaca,  the  land  of  my  desire!     . 

Just  once  a  year  the  Saskatoon 

Last  year  I  dreamed  of  days  to  be 

Let  this  but  be  my  guerdon     .... 

Let  us  bid  the  world  good-by !         .  .  . 

Let  us  go,  love,  hand  in  hand 

Like  harsh  bells  tolling  in  a  trance 

Like  Tristram  desolate  by  a  sunlit  sea     . 

Lo !  he  knocks  at  your  door     .... 

Lo,  I  have  done  awhile  with  haste  . 
Lone  white  gull  with  sickle  wings    . 
Look  me  in  the  face,  lad         .... 

"Lord,  if  the  body  be  drudge  unto  purity" 
Moses,  Moses,  seeing  God       .... 

Music  of  great  spaces,  mighty  organ  tones 
My  two  old  salts  are  funny  chaps  . 
My  world  is  girt  with  a  rampart  of  wonder   and 
shadow       ....... 

Night,  and  the  golden  glory  of  the  moon 

Night,  hot  and  breathless;  sails  that  flap,  and  spars 

No  chain  has  covered  its  distance     .... 


No. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


No  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide  , 

No,  no,  signora,  I  am  not  too  old     . 

No  question  shall  I  make  of  what  you  mean 

Not  by  the  gray,  dividing  seas 

Not  without  hope  nor  vainly  have  we  sought 

Now  I  am. minded  of  the  works  of  Him 

Now  their  sorrows  are  done  and  through 

Now  winds  from  polar  field  and  floe 

O  day  of  smoke  and  flame       ... 

O  far,  far  away,  where  the  kind  winds  blow 

O  God  of  battles,  lift  our  hearts  to  Thee ! 

O  Mary  in  thy  clear  young  eyes 

O  Mother,  I  cannot  sleep  tonight     . 

O  strange,  round  world!         ... 

O  who  will  give  us  a  song  for  them 

O  wind  from  the  golden  prairie 

O  years,  I  charge  you,  be  as  a  flower     . 

October  streets  where  yellow  leaves  are  lying 

Often  when  awake  I  lie  . 

Oh,  days  whoop  by  with  a  swingin'  lope  . 

Oh  Time,  Oh  Space,  Oh  Thoughts  to  be ! 

On  such  a  day  of  quiet  rain  . 

Once  on  such  an  eve  as  this     . 

Our  most  high  moods  are  like  swift  shadowings  of 

clouds         ...... 

Out  in  the  street  the  children  play 
Out  in  the  street  there  is  a  light     . 
Over  the  roofs  the  swallows  fly 
Play  up,  play  up  to  the  rising  moon 
Priest  Caiaphas  brought  one  hundred  men 
Quietness  everywhere      .... 

Rain  and  night  and  tear-eyed  mists 

Raining,  raining,  all  night  long 

Remember  May?    O,  till  no  more  a  color  tincts  the 

spray  

Rides  here  stern  brother  John  to  town     . 
"Rinaldo  de  la  Murcia — never  mind  my  titles" 
Said  the  Mother  of  all  Living  to  the  Mother  of  the 

Dead 

Sardonic  master,  you  that  dare  betray     . 
Serene  at  sunset  on  the  roof  . 
Shall  it  be  sad,  the  song  that  I  shall  sing 
She  came  among  us  and  we  lived     . 


Xo. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 
She  has  gone  out  upon  a  quiet  journey  .  .  .  241 
She   passed    through   the   shadowy    garden,    so    tall 

and  so  white       ...... 

She  said:    "My  babe  is  dead"  .  .  . 

She  sits  beneath  the  trellised  vine    . 

Should  Beauty  sleep  and  God  no  longer  care  . 

Shut  it  out  of  the  heart — this  grief 

So  long  it  is  since  first  the  eddying  world 

"Soldier,  knowest  thou  the  land"     . 

Soldiers  three  at  a  county  fair 

Soul,  what  hath  her  soul  to  say 

Sparrow  in  the  heart  of  birch 

Still  round  the  fire  we  cling  with  hands  outspread 

Sweep  over  me,  O  lovely  winds       .  .  . 

Sweet  was  the  song  that  the  Princess  trolled  . 

Swift  through  the  night  I  sped  on  vibrant  wing 

Swiftly  the  shrieking  fire-bird  gleams 

The  air  was  keen,  the  shadows  far  had  fled     . 

The  ancient  Star  of  Promise  stands  in  the  quiet  sky 

The  apples  dropping  from  the  tree 

The  April  afternoon  was  long    •     . 

The  birch  tree  throws  a  scarf  of  green     . 

The  breezes  of  the  spring  have  taken  wing 

The  city  is  so  kind  to  me       .... 

The  clouds  build  black  a  giant  hall 

The  dreamer  dreamed;  and  the  busy  world 

The   earth   weighs   down   my  'lids — they   forget   the 

feeling  of  tears  ...... 

The  hill  o'  dreams,  ten  days  ago     . 

The  kings  are  passing  deathward  in  the  dark  . 

The  lights  are  dim  on  the  steerage  deck 

The  little  brown  lads  are  flying  kites 

The  noonday  sun  is  dim  .... 

The  past  is  like  the  sea,  for  both  do  hold 
The  poets  cry,  the  preachers  drone 
The  quarry  is  caught,  the  game  bag  filled 
The  Roman  road  to  the  ferry !         .  .  . 

The  sleepless  leave  their  lair,  the  sun  begins     . 
"The  smile,"  they  called  her     .... 

"The  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd" 
The  trampling  armies  leave  discomfited  . 
The  Whine  of  the  Weak  to  God  on  High  arose 
The  wind  has  fallen  with  the  sun,  and  now 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


The  wind  is  sweet  with  hovering  rain 

There  in  a  row  of  chairs  upon  the  porch 

There  is  a  building  on  a  city  square 

There  is  a  house  beside  a  way 

There  strode  a  Bedouin  through  the  market-place 

There's  a  little  Irish  village  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill 

There's  a  new  beauty  thrilling  in  my  soul 

These  hands,  two  nimble  butterflies 

They  look  upon  us  through  the  mystic  door     . 

They  made  them  idols  in  the  elder  days  . 

This  is  the  love-song  we  today  are  singing 

This  is  the  road  that  you  all  must  take     . 

This  is  the  spot  where  I  will  lie       . 

This  is  the  truth  as  I  see  it,  my  dear 

This  love  of  nature,  that  allures  to  take  . 

This  was  one  of  the  dreary  whiles  . 

Thou  lonely,  dew-wet  mountain  road 

Though  there  is  something  that  I  long  to  tell  . 

To  Covent  Garden  people  stream     . 

To  God  the  glory!     We  who  lie     . 

Today  I  found  a  grass-grown  grave 

Tradition,  garbed  in  samite,  gold-inwrought    . 

Trailing  the  last  gleam  after 

Under  the  eaves,  out  of  the  wet 

Until  I've  had  my  fill  of  bluebells  blowing  by  the  hill 

Up  the  Minnesota  through  the  mellow  June     . 

War  has  its  field  of  blood — heart-breaking  war 

We  of  the  twilight  years  that  speed  toward  night 

We  ran,  and  I  outdistanced  him     . 

We  stood  on  Belgium's  tortured  soil 

We  strain  toward  Heaven  and  lay  hold  on  Hell 

We  who  beg  for  bread  as  we  daily  tread 

What  ails  the  air  in  Denmark 

What  distant  mountains  thrill  and  glow  . 

What  have  I  gained  who  gave  so  much     . 

What  is  the  symbol  underneath  it  all     . 

What  moved  Him  most — ^the  lilies  robed  in  white? 

What  paean,  what  victorious  cry     . 

What  though  we  shape  no  mighty  thing 

When  I  am  dead  and  must  be  buried  deep     . 

When  I  come  back  in  the  gloom 

When  life  has  done  with  laughter  and  singing     . 

When  Maire  at  the  fireside  sits 


No. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

When  no  one  else  will  come  and  Evening  draws       .  139 

When  the  song  is  done  ......  14 

When    they   ran   him    down   hill,   what   did   Moyer 

think? 152 

When  ye  pass  by  there  is  no  need  to  cry           .         .  50 

Where  are  the  Shepherds  who  watch  the  flocks?     .  Ill 

Whoe'er  you  be  at  whom  in  youthful  scorn     .          .  108 
Whose  footfall  is  it  on  the  stair?     .          .          .          .173 

Why  should  it  irk  me,  the  night     ....  85 

"Wisest  of  the  story-tellers," 57 

With  eyes  that  time  and  tears  have  smitten  blind     .  74 

With  rod  and  line  I  took  my  way  ....  87 

Woman,  Woman,  idly  dreaming     ....  159 

Women,  in  war-time  yours  how  hard  the  task         .  113 

Would  Jesus  come  to  me,  Mither     ....  148 

Ye  dead  and  gone  great  armies  of  the  world  .          .  100 

Yon  dragonfly  is  friends  with  me     .          .          .        ^ .  167 

You  and  I  settled  this  section  together     .          .          .  204 

You  can  hear  them  as  you  go         .         .         .    «.     .  60 

You  watch  and  abide  on  the  sunrise  side       .         .  221 


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